


The Dark Side of Orsterra

by Artemitica



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 191,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemitica/pseuds/Artemitica
Summary: Therion is humiliated into carrying out a sadistic Cordelia Ravus’ bidding, subjected to degradation every step of the way as he confronts the pain of his past. A disgraced Cyrus suffers misfortune, stalked by an obsessive fangirl as he is led slowly into dark madness. Primrose seeks vengence, plauged with doubt. H'aanit pursues a shadowy beast, burdened with a curse. A darker revisitation of the main story. Smut every chapter, occasionally consensual. (Porn with a plot, or a plot with porn?)





	1. Table of Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought this story was getting a little unruly, so I made this. Skip it if you don't want spoilers. I listed a summary, pairings, and general kinks… let me know if I should add anything else? I guess it messes up the numbering.
> 
> If you just want to start at the begining, skip to the next chapter.

Chapter 1- Table of Contents (listed to keep the numbering consistent)

Chapter 2- Bolderfall  
Therion is caught trying to steal the Dragonstones.  
Therion/Cordelia, Heathcote  
Non-con, humiliation, spanking, fingering

Chapter 3- Atlasdam  
Therion meets Cyrus, who learns he's evicted as well as jobless.  
Cyrus/Therese  
Non-con, attempted seduction of drunk Cyrus, oral

Chapter 4- Noblecourt  
Therion and Cyrus need a key from Barham. He makes demands of Therion.  
Therion/Barham  
Coerced oral

Chapter 5- Orlick's Manse  
Therion and Cyrus meet Orlick, Therion is caught stealing back the Dragonstone.  
Therion/Orlick  
Non-con drugged oral

Chapter 6- Returning the Ruby  
Therion returns to Cordelia, she “rewards” him  
Therion/Cordelia, Heathcote  
Non-con humiliation, submission, blindfolding, masturbation

Chapter 7- Quarrycrest  
Therion goes to find Cyrus. He's reconnected with his ex, Odette. Therion watches from the closet.  
Cyrus/Odette  
Consensual, voyeur

Chapter 8- The Sewers  
Cyrus explores a mystery in the sewers, is captured by Gideon, who can use mind-control on another prisoner, Ali. Tressa has a cameo.  
Cyrus/Ali  
Non-con, bondage, mind control, oral

Chapter 9- Sunshade  
Therion and Cyrus travel to Sunshade. Primrose and Yusufa attempt an escape. Tragedy strikes, Primrose joins up.  
Primrose/Yusufa  
Consensual, oral, fingering

Chapter 10- Wellspring  
Therion, Cyrus, and Primrose have to sneak into the black market. Therion tries to steal a mask off the wrong person.  
Therion/Mystery Man  
Non-con, oral, pain

Chapter 11- The Black Market  
Cyrus is disguised as a master, Therion and Primrose as dancers. Therion steals the emerald, but gets caught up by a group of dancers while under the effects of the gemstone.  
Therion/three other thieves  
Influenced by magic, group oral

Chapter 12- Days Gone By  
Flashback of when Therion and Darius met, Therion's POV.  
Therion/Darius  
Consensual and non-con, oral, anal, forced

Chapter 13- Reunion  
Therion chases after Darius. Caught by Gareth.  
Therion/Darius, Gareth  
Non-con, oral, anal, dirty talk, forced, humiliation

Chapter 14- Healing  
Therion recovers from his injuries. Grows closer to Cyrus. Alfyn and Ophilia make a cameo.  
Therion/Cyrus  
Consensual, oral, anal, snuggling

Chapter 15- Night  
Therion receives an ultimatum from Heathcote, doesn't deal with it well. Seeks comfort from Cyrus.  
Therion/Heathcote  
Non-con, humiliation, anal  
Therion/Cyrus  
Consensual, mutual masturbation 

Chapter 16- Stonegard  
Therion is suspicious of Cyrus and Primrose's relationship. Has an argument and a dream.  
Cyrus/Primrose  
Consensual I guess? but it's Therion's dream  
and he don't want it. Voyeur, humiliation

Chapter 17- Yvon's Birthplace  
Cyrus is trapped during his investigations into Yvon and Lucia's dealings, and is helped out by Therese... for a price.  
Cyrus/Therese Non-con emotional blackmail and manipulation, light fem dom?

Chapter 18- Ardor  
Cyrus confronts the bad guy, saves the girl, pisses off Therion. They argue. They make up.  
Cyrus/Therion  
Consensual angry make-up sex. Switching up the established roles, though.

Chapter 19- Road to Rippletide  
Primrose and H'aanit meet Therese on the path. Primrose remembers her old life with Yusufa.  
Primrose/Yusufa  
Consensual first time flashback.

Chapter 20- Wrath  
Therion returns to Cordelia. She is not pleased. Heathcote kidnaps Cyrus to bring to her, as well.  
Therion/Cordelia/Cyrus  
Non-con femdom, bondage, flogging, sensory deprivation, all kinds of stuff

Chapter 21- Tale of a Scholar  
Therion and Cyrus visit Odette. Cyrus narrates the story of his first meeting with Odette, whereupon the course of his life was forever altered.  
Cyrus/Odette  
Consensual, just a handjob 'cause eighteen year old Cyrus is too pure for anything else yet

Chapter 22- Secondary Jobs  
The boys travel up to the Frostlands from the west, the girls from the east. They get to learn some stuff from each other.  
Therion/Cyrus  
Consensual tent sex? Kinda sweet, I guess.

Chapter 23- Stillsnow  
Cyrus goes dragon slaying with H'aanit. Therion breaks into a brothel with Primrose. One of those goes better than the other.  
Therion/Oren (and Prim's there too?)  
Non-con oral

Chapter 24- From the Whitewood to the Obsidian Parlor  
Cyrus and H'aanit pursue the dragon, while Therion and Primrose overhear some shady secrets, and make some confrontations. Then everything crashes down around them, but it's okay-- there's a hot springs.  
Softcore smut in this one, and all consensual?  
Primrose/Rufus (though Prim had ulterior motives), Therion/Cyrus (almost), Primrose/H'aanit (but just a kiss)

Chapter 25- Northreach  
The travelers arrive in Northreach to investigate the shady happenings.  
Therion/Cyrus  
Consensual needy make up sex: anal, oral, desperate.

Chapter 26- A Den of Theives  
Therion has a real fuckin bad day. He got himself caught by Darius, and his gang is all out of bitches.  
Therion/Darius, Therion/everyone who works for Darius  
Extrodinarily non-con, literal gang bang. Then Darius takes a turn. Bondage, violence, pain.  
This chapter's got a bunch of violence, and like an excessive amount of swearing?

Chapter 27- Broken  
Like Chapter 26 but with more plot advancement. Primrose has a fateful encounter, Cyrus tries some blood magic, Therion continues to have a real bad time.  
Therion/Darius, Therion/all the other thieves  
Still very non-con. Bondage, violence, pain.  
But then Darius gets all emotional.

Chapter 28- Cold  
End of Therion's Chapter 4. The curse gets stronger.  
Therion/Darius  
Non-con

Chapter 29- Succor  
There's not actual porn in this one. I know. I am a liar liar pants on fire when I said "smut every chapter." Therion needs a break, guys. But there's some relationship stuff with Therion/Cyrus.

Chapter 30- Light and Shadow  
The travelers head to Flamesgrace with Alfyn, he has a little POV flashback about his and Ophilia's travels. Then some stuff goes down 'cause we can't have nice things, now can we?  
Consensual and wonderfully awkward Alfyn/Ophilia.

Chapter 31- Truth  
Cyrus confronts the truth of all things.  
Consensual Therion/Cyrus, but just hand stuff.

Chapter 32- Through the Woods  
H'aanit tries to get some help from the hunters. Ophilia is full of doubt.  
Consensual Cyrus/Therion and Primrose/H'aanit! But they can't have nice things, sorry. Ophilia ruins everything.

Chapter 33- Victor's Hollow  
Seeking out more power in a town crowded with warriors, but turns out the guy they want won't be so easy to help out.  
Consensual Therion/Cyrus, but also some vaguely sexual non-con bdsm stuff with Olberic.


	2. Bolderfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote little scene about Therion getting it on with Cyrus, and I really wanted to write more starring the thief. This is sort of a retelling of his story, making it (a lot more) NSFW. Details have been changed to this end. Spoilers for the general course of Therion’s chapters, but a lot of details are different than the game.
> 
> Also, Cordelia Ravus is completely out of character, but she was kind of whiny and boring anyway.

Heathcote looked down through the upper story windows of Ravus manor. Below, he had watched the pale-haired vagabond creep into the bushes, remaining concealed from the hired guards at the gate. He had snuck off, but now returned, striding right up to the entry. He brandished some sort of parchment at them, some forgery, no doubt. 

“Miss Cordelia,” the butler called out. His mistress was reclining on a sofa, reading one of her perverse romantic fantasy novels. Her fingers caressed the bulge of her breast over the bodice of her corset.

“What is it?” she asked, tiredly.

“There's a young ruffian who is attempting to bluff his way through the gates just now.”

“Is there, now?” Cordelia folded a ribbon into her book to mark her page. “Is he good-looking?”

“Hard to tell from this angle,” Heathcote said. “The guards have just let him in. Shall we adjourn downstairs to get a better look?”

“Yes, of course,” Cordelia said, rising and straightening her skirts. “I do hope he’s cute. It's been so long since I've caught an interesting plaything.”

“Indeed,” Heathcote agreed. His desirous hopes had been peaked as well.

\--- --- ---

Downstairs, Therion was a little surprised to find the spacious manor almost deserted. He had expected to have to bluff his way past servants and maids while sneaking to the innermost rooms, where the treasure most undoubtedly hid. But the house was dark, echoey, deserted. Maybe I’ve just had a bit of luck, for once, the thief thought.

He passed a large mirror as he made his way, swiftly and silently, down the hallway. Unbeknownst to him, looking at him from the other side of the two-way glass, was the Mistress of the house and her butler.

“Oh, he’s perfect,” Cordelia purred, studying Therion. “Young, beardless, adorable,” she said. “He will make a wonderful little toy, while we use him to get the gems back. What do you think?”

“He will do very nicely,” Heathcote said. “He has very feminine lips. The men will enjoy that, no doubt. As will I.”

Cordelia giggled. “Make sure you don’t start until I’m there to watch.”

Of course, Therion heard none of this. He found his way into a dining room, curiously set with fine china, but left sitting in shadow. Therion picked up a fork to examine it, then slipped it into his bag. He cleaned the place settings of their pure silver cutlery. As he wound through the maze of rooms, he picked up a few more prizes trinkets and stashed them in his bag or in his pockets- a few pieces of jewelry found in a bedroom, an ornamental dagger displayed above a fireplace, a few little jewel-encrusted figurines from a book-filled study. Finally, after being met with laughable resistance, he found a locked door.

With a hairpin and ninety seconds, Therion was through the door and looking at a blue gemstone, glittering on a pedestal. He took note of the three other, empty pedestals, but ignored them. He picked up the sapphire carefully, appraising it. 

“This is it?” Therion whispered to himself. “It doesn't look like much.”

“Neither do you, thief,” Heathcote said, standing between Therion and the doorway.

Therion whirled, adrenaline spiking through him. “Watch it, old man,” he barked. “I'm not one to be messed with.” He jammed the jewel in his trouser pocket, and fumbled for his dagger.

“Seize him,” the butler ordered. From the shadows of the room, a pair of guards materialized. One grabbed Therion’s arm, sending his dagger flying from his grasp. The thief wrenched away, only to catch a blow in the stomach from the other guard. He doubled over, and the first guard crunched a fist into Therion’s face. The thief collapsed to the floor, as blood dripped from his nose into the plush white carpet.

Each guard grabbed one of the thief's arms, twisting them behind his back, pressing him down so that he couldn't rise from his knees. Therion squirmed, but the guards held him fast. The butler stepped forward, dangling a pair of locking metal handcuffs from his fingers.

“Get off of me!” Therion growled, as he felt the shackles close around his wrists. The cold metal against his skin chilled him to the core. He had gotten himself caught only once before, and had sworn to himself he wasn't going to let it happen again. He was as furious with himself as with his captors.

Heathcote knelt beside the subdued thief, reaching a hand into Therion’s pocket to retrieve the sapphire. The butler's long fingers pushed deeper than necessary, sliding pressure against Therion’s thigh, before Heathcote pulled out the sapphire and a string of pearls the thief had found in a bedroom.

“You just think you can waltz in here and take whatever you like, do you boy?” the butler said, frowning. 

Therion just growled at him.

“Search him,” the butler ordered. “Remove his clothes.”

“Hey, what--” Therion protested, but the guards had already started stripping him of his scarf and boots. They handled him roughly, tearing his tunic and undershirt to remove it, yanking down his trousers and underclothes. Before he could fully realize it, he was naked, held down with his chest pressed to his knees, his knees pressed to the floor, his hands bound behind his back.

Therion craned his neck to watch the butler rifle through his clothes, pulling out the objects he had gleaned from his tour through the manor. After he had collected them, he moved to a nearby table, where he spread them out in display.

“Quite the haul, my young thief,” Heathcote said. “I doubt the local watch would see this as merely petty theft. And I believe the punishment in this city for grand larceny is…”

“Death,” a female voice finished the butler's sentence. Cordelia Ravus strutted in from the doorway, the folds of her fine skirt swishing as she moved. Therion’s blood thickened. 

“This is the extent of the boy’s crime, Mistress,” Heathcote said, motioning to the table.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t we?” Cordelia said. “Stand him up. I want to see him.”

The guards pulled Therion to his feet, thwarting any of his attempts to keep himself covered. With his arms bound, he was fully exposed to the Mistress’ scrutiny. He watched the woman eyes travel up and down his bare body, and he felt himself redden with embarrassment.

“Not bad,” Cordelia mused. She walked towards him. “A bit short, but I like that. Thin. Fair-skinned.” The Mistress traced a finger up Therion’s sternum, making him jolt. The guards held him fast. “No chest hair, that's good.” Cordelia raised the thief’s chin with a finger, forcing him to meet her green eyes. “Handsome features. And I see what you were saying about those lips, Heathcote.”

“What do you want?” Therion growled. “Is this what rich snobs do for fun? Humiliating me before you turn me in, so you can see me hanged in the town square?”

“Well, that's one option,” Cordelia said. “A regrettable one, to be sure. But I have other choices.”

“Such as?” Therion asked.

Cordelia grinned. “Punishing you myself.”

Therion’s brow crinkled in confusion. “What the hell is your problem, lady? You some kind of freaky pervert?”

Cordelia pouted.

“Do you want to die, boy?” Heathcote asked. “The city watch can be here in minutes.”

“...No,” Therion said quietly.

“Then we will take justice into our own hands,” Cordelia said. “Boys, bring him.”

The guards lifted Therion under his arms, pulling him along. The butler pulled back a curtain at the rear of the room, uncovering a set of locked double doors. He opened these with a key from his ring, and Therion was dragged into a medium-sized room lit by wall sconces. Ornate cabinets lined one wall, and a low plush couch lay off to one side, some sort of wooden bench or worktable to the other. The thief wasn't able to see too much of the room, however, as he was forced down over the table, bent at the waist, his head held to the firm surface by one of the guards. He struggled uselessly, cringing when he realized that his bare ass was more or less on display to everyone else in the room.

Cordelia laughed as he struggled. “Keep wiggling; you look irresistibly cute.” Therion stopped moving. She was behind him, so he could only hear her voice. He also heard the butler shut and latch the doors behind them. Therion had a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding.

“What… what are you going to do?!” Therion asked, ashamed of the slight quaking of his voice.

“You have trespassed on my property,” Cordelia said. “You have attempted to steal my treasures great and small.” Therion flinched as he felt the Mistress’ hand settle lightly on his hip. “And unless you want me to turn you over to the executioner, you are at my mercy. Which means…” Cordelia’s hand slipped down along the curve of Therion’s rear, “You. Are. Mine.”

The hard slap of the Mistress’ hand across the thief’s ass echoed in the room. Therion flinched more in surprise than pain, but the guards pressed him securely to the bench. There were two more smacks, one on each cheek.

“This is what happens to naughty boys like you,” the Mistress smirked. “Unfortunately, a girl like me doesn't have the strength to truly punish you like you deserve. But my servant does.”

Another impact of flesh on flesh echoed in the room. The first strikes had been a little weak. Therion had endured worse. But this one stung. There was another smack, then another, and Therion cried out. He wasn't sure if it was the butler or the other guard who was abusing him, but he could feel the pain pulsing from his rear with every sting. The blows kept coming, sometimes short and quick, others long and lingering, landing in different places until his entire behind was burning red. His eyes had started to water.

“Aww, look at you, little thief,” the Mistress said, once the echoing sounds had stopped. She had swirled around the bench to look at his face. His head was still pinned down by the guard’s arms. Cordelia smiled, and stroked her fingertips along Therion’s cheek. The blood from his nose had stopped flowing, and was drying on his lips and chin. “Have you repented yet?”

Therion took a few heavy breaths before he found his voice. He mumbled something indistinguishable 

“What was that, little pet?” the Mistress crooned.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” Therion spat, and then cried out again as a hard slap bounced off his already aching rear.

“Watch your tongue in front of the Mistress!” Heathcote snapped.

“Yeah.” the guard who held him pushed him emphatically into the hard bench.

“Hmm…” Cordelia said, pouting out her lower lip. “Maybe he needs something to keep that tongue of his in check.”

The other guard appeared in front of him, and shoved something into the thief’s mouth. Though he fought it, the guard pried open his jaw with thick fingers, and jammed it inside- a ball of cloth, attached to a strap that was tied around his head. Therion shouted muffled obscenities from around the gag.

Cordelia ran a hand through Therion’s hair, tousling it. “Poor, poor little pet,” she teased. “You know, Heathcote,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“He managed to tuck away quite a few possessions of mine on his visit here today. Do you think we have recovered them all?”

“Would you like me to check him more thoroughly?” the butler asked, a devilish glean to his voice.

“I think that may be necessary,” the Mistress said, trailing her fingers lightly over the tops of her breasts. 

Therion squirmed and protested to no avail as he felt the butler spread his reddened ass apart. Cordelia swirled around the table so she could see both the thief's face and the butler's fingers as they penetrated inside the thief's body. Therion shouted against the cloth gag at the butler's fingers probed inside of him, pushing at the resistance to open him up. He heard the guard holding him down laughing at his protestations.

Then, as Therion felt the butler's third long finger force its way inside of him, he felt an altogether different kind of ache begin to build. The butler's fingers were pressing against that place that sparked pleasure among the pain. He couldn't believe it, as he struggled against the restraining arms of the guard, blood began to rush below his waist. He felt himself begin to grow hard against the wooden bench, as the Mistress ran her fingers over his face and back. He felt himself relax a little, and the butler pushed a fourth finger inside of him. Then he felt the butler's other hand slide down between his thighs, caressing his tender parts and sliding along his growing arousal. Therion flushed red in embarrassment.

“I do believe he has started to come around, Ma’am,” Heathcote said, stroking Therion encouragingly.

“Oh, good, I hoped he would,” the Mistress said happily. “Thomas, Gregory, be dears and hold him up so that I can see.”

The other guard joined his partner as Heathcote’s hands retreated. Therion was pulled up from under his arms and lifted to face the Mistress, nothing to hide his now fully-stiffened arousal. He kept his eyes on the floor, his face burning in humiliation.

Cordelia swept forward, running her fingertips lightly along the length of Therion’s cock. “Adequate,” she appraised. “Suits your frame, pet.” She lifted his chin with her other hand, and when Therion tried to pull his face away, she gripped both his chin and his shaft firmly in her hands.

“Have you had enough, little thief?” Cordelia asked. “Have you repented?”

Therion’s defeated response was muffled by the gag.

“Oh, sorry,” the Mistress chimed. She untied the knot at the back of his head, and pulled the wet gag from his mouth.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Therion sighed. “Whatever. Just… just stop this.”

Cordelia smiled. “I'm going to need a few more things from you before we are done here,” she said. Swirling, she floated over ro the low couch in the room, and sat down on it gracefully. Therion just watched, emotionally defeated. He had been captured and humiliated. His pride and anger had been replaced by a desire to drink until this just all seemed like a bad dream.

“My handsome guards are going to release you,” Cordelia said. “But they will be watching you. They are armed, and you are naked. Don’t even think about trying anything.”

“I won't,” Therion muttered.

“When they unshackle you, you are going to get on your knees. Then you are going to crawl your pretty little self over to me. Slowly. Then you will grovel at my feet, and kiss my toes.” The Mistress stuck out the golden toes of her slippers for effect.

Therion scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Seeming to fly in from nowhere, the butler's palm slapped across his face.

“You need more convincing, then?” Heathcote said, and Therion’s eyes widened as he started undoing his belt.

“No!” Therion said. “No. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

Cordelia smiled, but her butler frowned. She nodded to her guards. One released Therion’s arm and unlocked the handcuffs. As soon as they were off, the other guard shoved him roughly to the floor.

Therion caught himself on the marble tiles, unsteady at first as the circulation rushed back into his arms and hands, giving him tingles like pins and needles. His ass still throbbing a reminder of his treatment, Therion pulled himself forward across the cold parlor floor. He was overwhelmingly aware of Cordelia, the butler, and the two guards watching the sight of him crawling, naked. He tried to block it from his mind and think of the cold pints of ale that would be washing all of this away. 

He arrived at Cordelia’s feet, and she wiggled her toe. He looked up at her, with her sadistic smile. Choking down the bile rising in the back of his throat, he closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and touched them to the toe of the Mistress’ shoe.

“Now, you are mine, my pet,” Cordelia said, and Therion cried out as something closed around his neck.

He found himself yanked backwards, as a leather collar was fastened around his neck, and secured with a small, decorated lock. The butler had him in a chokehold after this, as the two guards held onto his legs. Cordelia bent forward, and slid something over his now softened cock. Therion struggled against the guards once more as he felt something tighten around the hilt.

“It's on,” the Mistress said, and the guards released the flailing thief.

One of Therion’s hand tugged at the collar around his neck, and the other at the thing Cordelia had locked between his legs. He stared down at it. It looked like a cage, but the way it was attached, with a metal loop around his balls, there was no way it was coming off on its own.

“A chastity device,” Cordelia said, giggling at Therion’s horror. “Only I can unlock it. It will let you perform your basic bodily functions--you see that hole there in the tip-- but it will make any attempts at anything of a sexual nature quite impossible.”

“What the fuck?” Therion yelled. “Get this thing off me!”

Heathcote slapped him again. “What did I tell you about watching your tongue?!”

The slap had started Therion’s nose bleeding again, but at least this time his hands were free to pinch his nose closed.

“I will remove it,” Cordelia said calmly, crossing her legs, “as soon as you complete your quest.”

“What quest?”

“You see, the gem you tried to steal is one of a set of four…” Cordelia said. 

Cordelia explained Therion’s task, how he was to recover all three missing dragonstones, and return then to her in Boulderfall. Only then would she release the fool’s device she had put on him. Therion had to shift onto his knees, keeping his weight off of his throbbing behind.

“And after that?” Therion asked.

“Then you’re free to go,” Cordelia said. “I swear by the flame. I’ll probably have some other new pet by the time you’re done, anyway.”

“And you’ll think I’ll do this for you,” Therion said, “after what you just did to me?”

Cordelia shrugged. “You will. Or you better go become a cleric, because you’re not getting that thing off any other way, pet.”

Therion narrowed his eyes at her.

“I’m done with him,” Cordelia said. The guards grabbed him again, and pulled him through the house, tossing him out the back entrance.

“Hey, wait--” he shouted, and was hit by a bundle of his torn clothes.

“Come back after you have the first dragonstone,” Heathcote called, and slammed the gate on him, naked, bruised, and bloody, on a back street of Bolderfall.


	3. Atlasdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion meets Cyrus. Cyrus has a bad day.

Therion didn't remain long in Boulderfall. He had pulled his clothes on, cursing the torn seams, and had tried to settle into the first of a long series of pints at the tavern. He downed the first in a long few gulps, but as he set the empty mug on the bar, he noticed the armed guard eyeing him from across the pub. Therion couldn't tell if it had been one of the ones who had witnessed his humiliation, but he was fairly sure the man belonged to the Ravus’. He left the tavern, and the town, filching a bottle of whiskey on the way out. The guard followed him to the city gates, but no further. Therion downed the bottle as he walked. The next morning found him in a roadside ditch with an empty bottle and a hint of a hangover.

Therion had then managed to stumble his way through the Woodlands, and then sweet-talk his way onto a carriage through the bitter Frostlands, doing his best to keep himself tipsy throughout, and haphazardly mending his favorite purple tunic. The booze dried up as the carriage stopped on the outskirts of Atlasdam.

Therion stood at the crossroads, studying the letters denoting Noblecourt and Atlasdam. The city of scholars, he thought. Maybe they know something about these stupid stones… or something on House Ravus. He itched beneath the locked collar around his neck. Some dirt on that bitch he could use as leverage to get free without actually doing her dirty work.

The sun was shining brightly, making the thief scowl and shield his eyes from the light. He needed the tavern. Before finding it, he happened past the Academy library. It looked dark enough inside. He stepped in.

Robed scholars stood browsed the shelves, some looking over the tops of their spectacles at the road-dusty, tatter-clothed Therion. The thief just returned their stares with a hard look of his own. Maybe this was a mistake, but he was committed.

He moved towards the center desk, where a young female clerk was smiling warmly, listening to a dark-haired scholar who was leaning against the counter, prattling on. The girl was pretty, and clearly interested in the scholar, hanging on his every word. There was no one else at the counter, so Therion approached them.

“So you see, my dear, that’s the reason why they consider the Kingdom fallen, even though the royal lineage perpetuates to this day,” the scholar was saying. The pretty clerk was nodding eagerly. Therion cleared his throat.

“After renouncing all challenge to the throne, the remains of the family live in relative pastoral peace just outside Whispermill.” The scholar flashed a dazzling smile across the counter 

“That's fascinating, Professor,” the clerk said, clutching a hand across her chest.

“Excuse me,” Therion said, more rudely than he had intended. The clerk and scholar turned to him, she with an annoyed frown, he with a curious brow.

“Yeah,” Therion said. “I was looking for some information.”

“Then you're in the right place, my friend!” The scholar said, exuberance rolling through his voice. “If it is known to man, it can be found within the stacks of this library. Isn't that right, Marcella?”

“Of course, Professor,” the clerk said, the smile fading from her face as she turned from the scholar to Therion. “What sort of information?”

“On… on some ancient relics. Called the Dragonstones.” Therion immediately had second thoughts about telling her.

“Dragonstones?” the dark-haired scholar said. “The family heirlooms of a noble house, I believe. Somewhere out west?”

Therion turned to the scholar. “The Ravuses,” he said slowly, studying the scholar’s reaction.

“Yes, of Boulderfall!” the scholar’s eyes lit up. “I should have recalled.”

“You know about the Ravuses?” the thief asked.

“I know a great many things,” the scholar said, with a grin. “It’s my occupation. Or, well, it was.”

“Oh, Professor…” the clerk soothed, her hand reaching for his arm. He patted her hand.

“So you could tell me about the Dragonstones,” Therion said flatly, trying to ignore the obvious flirting. “And House Ravus?”

“I could indeed,” the scholar said. “May I ask why you seek this information?”

“I…” Therion coughed to buy himself time to think. “I was hired to do some work for them. Kind of want to know a bit about the folks I’m working for.”

The scholar nodded, satisfied. He turned to the clerk. “I believe there is a volume… Ancient Artifacts and the Unexplored Mysteries… or something like that.”

The clerk spun on her heel, quickly flipping pages in a catalogue. “Ancient Artifacts and the Untold Secrets, perhaps?”

“Yes!” the scholar slapped his forehead. “That's the one!”

“It's been checked out,” the clerk said. “And… it's past due.”

The scholar shook his head. “Does no one follow basic common book borrowing decency around here?”

“So…” Therion prompted, “that means there's no book?”

“Not unless you want to go visit…” the clerk ran her finger across a column, “Professor Orlick von Bransonberg, who currently has the book.”

“He's retired to Noblecourt to do some field research, hasn't he?” the scholar asked.

“I believe so,” the clerk said.

“Oh,” Therion said. “Well, thanks anyway.” He turned to leave, cursing his stupid idea to come to a library, of all places.

“Wait!” the scholar said. “My good man, I believe I can still be of assistance!”

Therion glanced at the scholar over his shoulder. “Oh, right. You know stuff.”

The scholar beamed. “I do indeed. Perhaps I could relate what I know over a drink at the tavern?”

“Ah, a man who speaks my language,” Therion said. “Sure thing, Professor…”

“Albright,” the scholar said, extending a hand. “Professor Cyrus Albright.”

“Therion,” the thief said. “Just… Therion.”

\--- --- ---

The two entered the tavern, surprisingly busy for the mid afternoon- about a half dozen other patrons lingered at the tables. 

“Have a seat,” Therion said. “I’ll get us some drinks. What's your poison?”

“That's generous of you,” Cyrus said, swinging his gold-trimmed cloak over the back of the chair as he sat. “Last I was here, they had a particular Malbec I found delightful. If not, a Syrah, perhaps.”

Therion gave him a hard stare. “Right.”

He approached the bartender, sizing him up. Therion was always a pretty good judge of bartenders. This one seemed too down-to-earth for the frills of the university town.

“Afternoon,” the thief said. “I’ll take a pint of whatever’s strong and on tap, and then I guess my new friend wants some kind of fancy wine he had before?” Therion motioned to Cyrus’ table. 

The bartender peered across the room, watching Cyrus flip through a small notebook he had pulled from somewhere in his cloak.

“Ah, Professor Albright,” the barkeep said. “I’ll get his usual. Surprised he's still in town.”

“Oh?” Therion asked, ears perked as he rummaged for some coin. “Why's that?”

“Thought you were friends,” the bartender said, popping a cork off a dark wine bottle.

“New friends. As of about ten minutes ago.”

“Well, rumor has it he got himself in a bit of trouble. Some scandal with the royals, they say.”

Therion set his coin on the counter, then pointedly doubled the amount. “Do tell,” he said.

As Therion returned to the table with a beer in one hand, a wine glass in the other, Cyrus snapped his notebook closed and tucked it away.

“Sorry to pull you away from your girl,” Therion said.

Cyrus froze in the process of raising the glass to his lips. “Pardon? My whom?”

“Your girl. That… the clerk at the library.”

“Oh, you aren't inferring… Mercedes and I have some sort of romantic entanglement?”

Therion shrugged. “I… I guess I sort of got that impression. From the way she was all over you.”

Cyrus looked puzzled. “I didn't notice.”

“Seriously?” the thief raised an eyebrow.

“That sort of thing has been happening to me a lot lately.” Cyrus frowned. “But, I digress. House Ravus. Are you prepared?”

“Will there be an exam at the end?” Therion smirked.

Cyrus laughed, and took a long drink of wine. “Now. House Ravus is one of the older noble houses in Orsterra…”

As the scholar continued, consuming an hour and a half and four more glasses of wine, it became very clear to Therion that Cyrus did indeed know a lot, and that very little of it was going to be of use to him. But, since Cyrus offered to buy the additional rounds of drinks, he was content to sit, drink, and listen to the scholar’s surprisingly soothing voice. He certainly chose the right job.

“Professor Albright, sir?” 

Both turned to look at a young scholar who had suddenly appeared at their table. Therion blinked. The beer must be stronger than I thought.

Cyrus seemed just as confused. “Henry, what can I do for you?”

“I thought you might like to know…” the scholar eyed Therion nervously. “The Headmaster 9ordered the maintenance team to clear your apartments. They're starting now.”

“They what?!” Cyrus shot up from the chair, only stumbling slightly. “Preposterous!” He nodded to Therion. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, and rushed out the door in a mostly straight line. 

Therion shook his head, and pondered his empty glass.

\--- --- ---

Cyrus moved quickly across town--he didn't run, still trying to keep the bit of decorum and good reputation he held in Atlasdam. He kept his features cool, but inside his thoughts raged, augmented by the dizzy buzz of wine. A tall building on the edge of town made up the faculty apartments, a perk given to tenured employees of the University. He fumbled with his key to unlock the gate, half expecting the lock to have been changed, and he charged up the stairs to his loft. 

The door was ajar, and two burly maintenance workers were in the process of moving crates full of his possessions out of the apartment.

“Cease this at once!” he called out. “On whose authority do you pilfer an honest man's belongings?”

“Headmaster Yvon,” one of the movers said. “He told us to move all this crap down to cellar storage.”

““Those are _my_ things you're referring to as ‘crap,’” Cyrus said, “you can't just trespass in my apartment!” “It's the university’s apartment,” the second mover said. “And from what Yvon said, you don't work there anymore.” Cyrus' face fell, the storm inside him quelling. “Can I at least get ten or twenty minutes to pack my things, then?” The first mover shrugged, and set down his crate. “I don't have a problem with taking a break,” he said, motioning to his partner. Cyrus watched them trundle down the stairs, then swept into the loft, closing the door behind him. He surveyed his belongings, half crammed into moving crates, other things strewn haphazardly across the floor and furniture. He held his chin in his hands as he tried to fight through the swirl of wine and figure out what he should prioritize to pack and take with him, but after a few long moments of trying to figure it out, he simply grabbed a bookbag and started stuffing items inside, hoping for the best. 

There was a knock at the door.

“I said give me ten minutes, damn it!” Cyrus called, hearing the door creak open behind him.

“Professor?”

Cyrus turned. “Oh, Therese! Apologies for my coarse language, my dear.” The girl stood in the doorway, hands clenched together. “I’m a bit in a huff at the moment, and I need to gather my things before the Headmaster banishes it all to some mouldering basement storage cellar.”

“I know, Professor…” the girl's bright eyes looked pained. She stepped into the room, to let the door swing shut behind her. “I heard! It's so awful! How can they make you leave?”

Cyrus set down his bag. “Politics, sadly,” he said. “Don't worry. I’ll be back before you know it, after all these nasty rumors have faded from memory.” He tried to take a step towards her, but he swayed with the wine, and ended up falling back against the desk behind him.

“Professor!” Therese cried, rushing towards him and grabbing his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I…” he looked at the blush of redness in her smooth cheeks, wondering if his own face was flushed. “Pay it no mind.”

Therese straightened, but stayed close. Her fingers rose to her chest again, toying with the lace on her bodice. “Are you leaving right now?” she asked softly.

“I suppose I must,” Cyrus said. The wine was hitting him now, after the agitation had passed.

“Then…” Therese said, dropping her bright eyes to the floor. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“Anything,” Cyrus said, steadying himself against the swaying of the floor.

“Professor… I’m in love with you,” Therese said.

Cyrus took a few moments to react. He must have misheard. “Pardon?”

Therese tugged at the laces of her bodice, pulling them free. “I think about you all the time. That's why I’ve taken every class and lecture you’ve given.” She pulled at the fastenings of her dress. “And now you're leaving, and I don't know when or if you're coming back, and I--" she freed the last tie holding the folds of her violet dress to her body. She slid it from her bare, smooth shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She wore nothing underneath. “I want you to have me.”

“Therese…” The wine had slowed his brain to a simmer. It was still trying to figure out a reaction to the sight of his student standing bare before him, getting hung up on the smooth, pale curve of her hips, the tiny dimple of a navel, the perky rosettes dotting her unassuming breasts. “No, this is…” She was unmistakably pretty. Cyrus shook his head, trying to clear it. “This is not right. You're young.”

“I’m nearly twenty,” she said, stepping forward. She kept her bright eyes locked on his, but they had taken on a much different sheen. It was curious, Cyrus thought, how she looked so much different simply by shedding her dress. 

“Do you know how many night I laid awake in my dormitory, thinking about you? Touching myself,” she slid a hand down her inner thigh, “and wishing it were you touching me?”

Therese reached for her professor's hand, which he was still using to steady himself on the desk behind him. As she leaned, her bare breast pressed against him, and her eyes searched his. Cyrus watched the girl take his hand and hold it to her naked chest, muscles still numb while his mind sorted through the situation. He watched a thumb trace across her nipple before the jolt of his conscious reminded him that it was his hand.

“Therese, no, I can't--" he tried to pull his hand away, but she held it fast. 

She bit her lip, and he felt her other hand slide down to find the hardness forming below his belt. “I knew you wanted me, Professor,” she said, squeezing. Cyrus flinched, and felt himself responding to the touch. Therese smiled her pretty smile.

“I want to be yours,” she said, sinking to her knees. “Let me show you.”

Her slim fingers worked at his belt, and even though he tugged halfheartedly to stop her, she batted his hands away and unlaced his trousers. He gave a little gasp as she pulled his cock free. Something about the sight of her sweet face a breath away from it gave him longer pause than the swirls of alcohol alone did. Therese stroked her fingers along the length.

“I’ve always wondered what you looked like here, Professor,” she smiled. “Don't worry, my dreams haven't been disappointed.”

“We can't do thi--" Cyrus' words stuck in his throat as Therese slid her rosy lips around his cock. Her bright eyes looked up at him with intensity, and she gave a little moan in satisfaction. Despite the intoxication, that sight would be burned into his memory.

Suddenly, the door banged open once again.

“By the Gods and all that is sacred!” a voice bellowed in anger.

Therese gave a little shriek of surprise, and fell away, clutching her dress to her body in a desperate attempt to shield herself from the intruder. Cyrus collapsed unceremoniously to the floor at her side, and looked up dizzily at Headmaster Yvon and his aide, standing in the doorway of his apartments.

Grasping her dress, Therese bolted from the room, squeezing by the two before they had seemed to fully realize who she was. Instead, Yvon turned his ire towards Cyrus, who was attempting to both stand up and pull his trousers back on at the same time, and was failing at both.

“It has been less than twenty four hours since you were reprimanded for this very thing!” the Headmaster thundered. “What the hell is your problem, man?”

“Currently?” Cyrus said, pulling himself up again with the help of the steadying desktop, “I have a fair multitude of problems.”

“Are you drunk?” the Headmaster's aide asked.

Cyrus looked at them both, flatly. “It seems that I have reached an age where I can no longer hold my ale like an undergraduate student.”

“No, but you can get sucked off by one!” Yvon yelled. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I came for my things,” Cyrus said. “Which you were looking to dispose of without my knowledge.”

“This lodging is for active faculty only, and you know that,” Yvon said. He massaged his temples with his fingers. “Pack your things. I will arrange for a carriage out of Atlasdam, leaving before sundown. It will take you anywhere you want, as long as it is away from here. You will be on it. If you are not, or you return within the next year, I will have you imprisoned.”

“On what charge?” 

“Lechery!”

“Not a crime!” Cyrus crossed his arms defiantly.

“Disturbing the peace! Corrupting the youth!”

“And you’ll make me drink hemlock, as well?”

“Gods help me Cyrus, you will be gone from this town by nightfall! Expect the city watch to be chaperoning you until then!” With that, Yvon whirled from the room. His aide appraised Cyrus with a sweeping glance, then followed him out.

\--- --- ---

Therion strolled through the marketplace, watching the shopkeepers close up for the evening. There were two kinds, he had noticed. Those who were overly meticulous, counting every leaf and keeping careful inventory, and those who were tired and ready to go home as quickly as possible. He hunted for the latter, making smalltalk and waiting for their attention to wander away from their wares. 

The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle, and he heard the clang of armor and the tread of disciplined boots. City watch. Therion pulled himself away from the stalls, keeping his hands visible to not attract attention.

“There he is!” a voice said, and Therion whirled, ready to bolt. He relaxed only a little when he recognized Cyrus, a pack slung over his shoulder, an armed guard to each side.

“My Dragonstone-seeking friend!” the scholar said. “Ready to depart?”

Therion frowned, eyeing the guards. “Go where?”

“Noblecourt!” Cyrus said, shifting his pack over his shoulder. “You need to talk to Professor Orlick.” Therion looked blank. “The scholar who has your book. We're acquainted.”

“What's with the… escort?” Therion asked 

“Don't worry about it.” Cyrus waved a hand dismissively. “But we must commence posthaste. There's a carriage.”

“Right now?” Therion asked, skeptical.

“Before nightfall. It's a sordid tale, perhaps I’ll regale you as we travel.”

“Are… are your friends here coming?” Therion motioned to the guards.

“We're here to make sure he leaves,” one of the guards said. “Where you go after that, we don't care, as long as you stay out of Atlasdam.”

“Allons-y!” Cyrus said, turning and marching off in the other direction. The guards followed him. 

Therion hesitated. He did need to find those Dragonstones, to free himself from the humiliation Cordelia Ravus had locked him in. And if this man could get him close to the first one, well, what did it matter if he was a little… perplexing? Shrugging, Therion followed the scholar 

They reached the carriage waiting at the edge of town, situated near a fruit vendor trying to unload the last of his wares for the day.

“Fresh fruit, sirs!” the vendor called to the guards, as Cyrus loaded his pack into the carriage. “Fine pears! Juicy apples!”

“Keep moving, citizen,” a guard said, annoyed.

“Professor Albright,” the vendor called. “I have something for you, sir!”

“I'm in no need of nourishment, thank you,” Cyrus said.

“Well, you shouldn't eat this,” the fruit seller said, and from his cloak, he produced a stack of letters tied with a violet ribbon. “A parting gift from a friend,” he said. “I was entrusted to deliver it.”

“Many thanks,” Cyrus said, taking the packet. He eyed it suspiciously.

“Well, you getting in, or what?” the coach driver growled.

“Yes, yes,” Cyrus said. He looked up to Therion. “Will you accompany me?”

For an instant, it seemed as though the scholar's piercing eyes saw all the way through Therion-- as if they were able to know everything about him in a single glance. He shivered involuntarily, despite the warm evening. “Yeah,” the thief said, trying to recover. “Yeah, why not?”

“Splendid!” Cyrus said, and climbed aboard the coach. Therion followed.

“Noblecourt?” the coachman barked out the question.

“If you would be so kind,” Cyrus replied.

“Kind's got nothing to do with it. The Headmaster's paying double to get you outta town.”

Cyrus paled, and looked down at the bundle of letters in his hand. The driver cracked the reins, and the carriage was off with a lurch.

“So… you pissed off this Headmaster guy, huh,” Therion said, pulling an apple out of his baggy tunic. “He's like your boss, right?”

“Well, not anymore,” the scholar said. “Seems that I am currently seeking new employment.” He glanced out the window, as they crossed the bridge out of the city. “And currently seeking new lodgings, as well.” He looked at Therion. “Did you purchase that from that fruit seller?”

“It's from that fruit seller,” Therion said. “I wouldn't exactly say ‘purchased’.”

“You stole that,” the scholar said.

“Borrowed,” Therion shrugged.

“You intend to give it back when you’re finished?”

“I don't think he’d want it when I’m done with it,” Therion said, taking another bite. “Besides, I prefer to see the world as a system of… flexible ownership.”

The scholar seemed to ponder this for a while, most likely cross-referencing it with the catalogue of knowledge in his brain before he concluded it was bullshit.

“In any event, I’m still intrigued about these Dragonstones, so I suppose I’ll tolerate your misdemeanors for the moment.”

“That's very gracious of you,” Therion said, “especially coming from a man accused of having an illicit affair with a member of the royal family.”

Cyrus blanched. “It's gotten around already, has it?”

Therion smirked. “Taverns are great for gossip. What's in your papers, there?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Cyrus said. “Shall we find out?” He pulled at the ribbon, untying the neat bow. He unfolded the top paper, and Therion watched as his eyes quickly scanned it. The scholar's face went from curious, to apprehensive, to worried, to almost horrified.

“What is it?” Therion asked.

Cyrus quickly folded the paper closed. “It seems a former student of mine is the one who started the rumor about myself and the Princess,” he said, moving on to the next paper. “She confesses such in this letter. And she did so out of misguided jealousy.”

“You have yet another admirer,” Therion said.

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Then she accosted me in my apartments, disrobed completely while making lewd advances, and when we were discovered, I, of course took the blame.”

“She came on to you?” Therion asked. “Wait, just today? When you had to run out of the tavern?”

“Indeed,” Cyrus said, opening the next paper, “it's quite the situation. And then… oh, dear.” He stopped, staring at the paper in his hands. “It seems she is also an artist.”

Therion peered at the paper, a laugh rising in his throat. “Is that you? And are you…naked?”

Cyrus crushed the drawing between his hands. “This girl clearly has an unhealthy preoccupation with me."


	4. Noblecourt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion and Cyrus go to Noblecourt. Therion tries to make his job easier. It ends up harder.

“We've nearly arrived,” a caramel voice stirred Therion from his dream as a hand touched his shoulder. The thief opened his eyes, and looked up at Cyrus. As things clicked into place mentally, he realized that he had fallen asleep, and his head had fallen into Cyrus’ lap. He pulled himself up quickly.

“I am so sorry,” Therion said, flushing red. “I never meant to--”

“It's quite alright,” Cyrus said. “I didn't mind. You seemed at peace.” He motioned to the window, cooly ignoring Therion's embarrassment. “You can see the city walls. Those towers, there? They used to be a line of windmills, but as the city expanded, they built over the farmland and just connected them to make up the foundation of the walls.”

“You ever been here before?” Therion asked.

“A few times,” the scholar said. “Rumor has it that the city's really suffered after the fall of House Azelhart.”

“Don't say that too loud,” the coachman called from the front. “Speakin’ against his Lordship can land a man in prison.”

“Let's avoid that, then,” Cyrus said.

“Here's your stop,” the coachman said, reigning in the horses as the carriage shuddered to a stop. “I spose you can get your own bag?”

“Quite right,” Cyrus said, and they climbed down the stair. 

Therion groaned as he stretched his legs, feeling the muscles waken. He cracked his neck, and was reminded of the leather collar buckled around it, hidden by his scarf. The reminder made him flush in equal parts anger and embarrassment. “So, we need to find your friend,” he said.

“I wouldn't call him a friend, necessarily,” Cyrus said, taking in the sights of the city. “Perhaps acquaintance? Former colleague?”

“Usually, when I'm trying to find something out, I head to the tavern,” Therion said.

“Hmm,” Cyrus surveyed the street. “Last time we did that, I ended up in more trouble than I started with. Let's just ask someone.”

“You can't just accost random people--”

“Excuse me! Madam!”

“Oh, Gods…” Therion shook his head, watching Cyrus flag down a townsperson. The woman was a little alarmed at first, but then she smiled, laughed, and fell into easy conversation with the scholar. He does have a strange charm, once you get over the abrasive enthusiasm, Therion thought. 

The woman pointed back down a back road, and Therion watched Cyrus' deep nod of gratitude. He jogged back over, a grin on his face. “I've located his residence!”

Therion couldn't help but smile. “Good job, let's go.”

“Small complication,” Cyrus said. “The good townswoman said that he keeps his place heavily guarded, and hasn't come out in weeks.”

“I thought he was a scholar?” Therion scoffed. “What does he have to guard?”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Only vast repositories of knowledge and the future of mankind.”

“Or a Dragonstone,” Therion said.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“So, I can get in,” the thief shrugged. “I have some experience sneaking in to places I'm not supposed to be.”

“Alternatively,” Cyrus began, looking thoughtful.

“What?”

“He had a falling out with his assistant a short time ago. Said assistant, by the name of Barham, is bitterly spreading ill will about town, and may be inclined to assist us.”

“That one lady told you all of that?” Therion asked.

“I have a very particular skill set,” Cyrus said, “but I'm very good at what I do.”

“Well, let's go see this assistant, then.”

“We should bring a gift.”

“What?”

“To be polite.”

Therion sighed. “I'm on it.”

\--- --- ---

“Okay, so that's his house up there,” Therion said, shifting the bottle of wine he had stolen in the crook of his arm. “I usually like to look around a place first, and--”

Cyrus strode confidently to the front door, and knocked heavily on it. Therion just shook his head. He heard the sound of a heavy latch being lifted, and the door cracked open.

“Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?!” a gruff voice grumbled from inside.

“Good day, sir,” Cyrus said, that oblivious smile on his face. “We would beg just a moment of your time.”

“I don't give a shit about the Church of the Sacred Flame. Begone,” the voice said.

“We're not with the Church--” Therion said, at the same time as Cyrus said, “We've come from the University seeking information about the Dragonstones.”

The door opened a little wider, enough for Therion to see the shape of a man in a scholar’s robes standing behind it.

“Dragonstones,” the man said. “What do you know of Dragonstones?”

“That's what we were hoping to speak with you about,” Cyrus said. “We brought wine.”

Therion lifted the stolen bottle. Barham's eyes searched the faces of the men in his doorway, the appraised the wine. “All right,” he said, pulling the door open. “I suppose I have an academic obligation to share what I know.”

“Many thanks,” Cyrus said, as he and Therion stepped through the door into the front room. The thief handed over the wine, which Barham looked over expectantly.

“Have a seat,” the scholar's assitant said. “Professor, I assume?”

“Yes, well…” Cyrus considered. “Why not. Professor Albright,” he said, extending his hand. “This is my… research assistant, Therion.”

The thief shot him an angry look for using his real name, but shook Barham's hand anyway. They sat, Cyrus and the scholar's assistant exchanging some smalltalk, before Cyrus steered the conversation to the stones.

“The Dragonstone…” Barham said, looking like he was fighting the urge to spit the word out of his mouth. “That damned thing. That's the reason Orlick's gone mad.”

“He has it, then?” Therion asked.

“He's got it. Or it's got him.”

“Pray tell what you mean by that?” Cyrus asked.

“Ever since he happened upon that stone, it's made him… crazy. Obsessive. He doesn't sleep, he doesn't leave his house. He has his food delivered… weird food, too. Nothing he used to ever eat. Eels and snails and deviled quail eggs and all sorts of awful smelling swill.”

“Interesting,” Cyrus said. “And you believe it's the stone that's caused the change in his behavior?”

“I know it,” Barham said. “It was affecting me, too. Making me envious and bitter, and…” Barham trailed off. “I didn't see it until Orlick kicked me out, and it lost its hold on me.”

“So you believe Orlick would benefit from the stone being removed from his possession?”

“Why, you here to steal it?” Barham accused.

“No, no, no--” Cyrus began, but Therion cut him off.

“The stone was stolen from its owner in the first place,” the thief said. “I was… hired… to restore it to House Ravus.”

“Well, you're going to have to steal it,” Barham said. “No way in hell that fool will give it over willingly. If you can get past the guards, I can give you my key to his study. That's where he's keeping it.”

Cyrus nodded thoughtfully. “I worked with the man before, I think I could convince him to see us.”

“A key would make my job way easier,” said Therion.

“Let's go see if I can dig it up, then,” Barham said, rising. “Young man, you come with me. Professor, we'll only be a minute.”

“Take your time,” Cyrus said, studying the volumes on the nearby bookshelf. “Mind if I admire your library?”

“By all means,” Barham said, motioning Therion to follow him down the hallway. The thief trailed him down the corridor, and down some stairs. Barham held open a heavy door for him. “Just in here,” he said. “You might have to help me dig through some boxes.”

Therion entered the cellar room, lit only from some ventilation windows near the ceiling. Dust danced in the streaming sunlight. The room was lined with crates, boxes, and old furniture, only a bit of space in the center.

“I hope you know which boxes,” Therion said, “or we might be here--” there came the heavy sound of the door latching shut behind Barham, and Therion's stomach dropped. “--all day.” His hand searched his side for his dagger.

“Don't try any weapons, you'll get us both hurt,” Barham said. Therion had turned, ready to fight, but Barham was standing tiredly, almost leaning on the stack nearest to him. “I want to make a deal with you, boy.”

“We could have talked about deals in your front room,” Therion said, trying to hide his nervousness.

“Not this one,” Barham said, sighing. “You see, I'm not free of the Dragonstone's curse.”

“What...what kind of curse?”

“It awakens… appetites.” Barham said. “Insatiable appetites.” As Therion watched, the scholar's assistant unbuckled his belt, and freed from his trousers the largest cock Therion had ever seen, fully erect. Therion looked from it, back to Barham.

“It's like this all the time, now.” Barham said. “I have no more money for whores, and doing it myself does nothing. I'll give you my key,” Bartham narrowed his eyes at Therion, “if you suck my cock.”

Therion stared at the swelling monster of an erection again. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Doesn't this look fucking serious? Maybe if that Godsdamn stone is out of my town, things will go back to normal.” Barham said. 

Therion shook his head. “This is insane.”

“You want this key, you'll do it,” Barham said. “Otherwise, you're dog food. I'll tip off the guards that you're coming. No way you'll get in, then.”

“Son of a bitch,” Therion said.

Barham thrust himself forward. “It's not going to suck itself.”

Eyes fixed on the swelling length, Therion closed the space between them, and let himself sink to his knees before the scholar's assistant. The head hovered a breath from his face, as he tried to swallow the indignity. He had almost steeled himself, when Barham moved, and the length nudged against his cheek.

“Come on,” Therion groaned.

“I can't wait any longer, boy,” Bartham said. “It gets so it physically pains me. Please. You'll be helping both of us.”

Therion sighed and closed his eyes. “All right,” he said, reaching up to grip the thick shaft. It was warm to the touch, and pulsed beneath his fingers. Keeping his eyelids shut tight, he opened his mouth, and fighting through the rising gall, touched his tongue to Barham's cock.

Therion had expected to fight the urge to retch, but it wasn't as bad as he had expected. Barham was clean, at least. The scholar's assistant let out a breathy sigh as Therion slid the head between his lips. It was big, but not painfully so. He loosened his scarf, giving his jaw more room to open. He knew he wouldn't be able to take the entire thing. Still, he sucked at Barthan's length earnestly, using his tongue and lips as best as he could. The better he did, the faster this would be over.

“You've done this before,” Barham said, smiling. Therion glared up at him, his mouth and hand not ceasing in their motions. “Mmm… you must have done this quite a bit.”

The assistant’s hand found the back of Therion's head, combing through his hair. The thief focused on the cock filling his mouth, keeping the pressure of his lips and the flick of his tongue. He started to notice the tightening below his waist. He could hardly believe himself… was he getting hard from this? The sensation of the hand in his hair and the fullness in his throat brought back hazy memories he had tried to forget. Memories of another. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, but his body was remembering. Of course, the fool's device Cordelia had locked on him kept the erection from forming. It would strain, and there would be discomfort, and he would be left with the frustrated yearnings with no way to release it. All for these Godsdammed stones…

Barham's fingers tightened in Therion's hair, gripping and twisting just on the edge of pain. The assistant started rocking his hips, thrusting himself further down the thief's throat. Therion gagged, but Barham held fast to his head, still fucking the thief's mouth and throat. With a long stroke, Barham pulled his cock from Therion's throat, dragging a sticky trail of saliva out to dribble messily down the thief's chin. Therion gasped for air.

“I'm nearly there,” Barham huffed, looking at Therion. The thief was barely able to breathe in half a breath before the assistant jammed his monstrous cock back down Therion's throat, pushing in nearly to the hilt. The thief felt his eyes water as Barham's hips rocked, and the fingers clutching his hair stayed his head.

Therion braced himself with a hand against Bartham's hip as he struggled to breathe. The assistant kept fucking his throat, rougher and faster. Finally, when it felt as if he was going to pass out, Barham let out an exhausted groan. The thick member ravaging his mouth pulsed against his tongue and lips, and Therion felt Barham's warm seed spill into his throat. 

The scholar's assistant pulled away, releasing his hold on Therion's head. The thief coughed and gasped for air, falling forwards and catching himself on all fours.

“Ahh, thank you, boy,” Barham said, fixing his clothing. He reached for a nearby drawer, fished around for a bit, and pulled out a bronze key on a red cord. “I wish there were more favors I could do for you.”

Therion climbed shakily to his feet, wiping the spit and come from his chin, and trying his best to ignore the dull ache of his denied arousal. “I bet,” he croaked. He snatched the key from the scholar's assistant, fire in his eyes.

“Best of luck,” Barham called out, as Therion stomped past him, shoving the key in his pocket, and wrapping his purple scarf over his nose and mouth.

He stormed through the sitting room on his way towards the door. Cyrus looked up from the book in his lap. “Therion, is something--”

“We're leaving,” he said, not even slowing.

Cyrus looked from his new friend's rapidly retreating back, to the hallway where Barham still had not returned, to the open book in his lap. “This is one of those social situations where I always do the wrong thing,” he muttered to himself. “Hold fast, I'm coming!”

\--- --- ---

Therion had found the tavern, and was halfway through washing his mouth out with ale when Cyrus found him.

“Is everything all right?” the scholar asked.

“Yeah.” Therion didn't look at him.

“Did you get the key?”

“Yeah.”

“So we're set to call on Orlick, then?”

“Give me a minute.”

Cyrus watched him, that keen gleam in his eyes. “You know, if you don't communicate your concerns, you can't expect to receive help or sympathy.”

Therion looked at him squarely. There was something about this guy, when he looked at you… as if he were reading all of your secrets, he thought. The thief looked away, feeling exposed. He saw a volume under Cyrus' hands. 

“Is that book from that guy's house? Did you steal it?” he asked.

“Steal?” Cyrus asked, alarmed. “I would never-- I'm merely borrowing it.”

Therion smirked. “So you’re gonna go give it back when you’re done?”

“Well, I--” Cyrus grew flustered. It made Therion smile, helping him forget the pain in his throat more than the drink did.

“And wasn't your whole deal that you tracked down some guy who stole a book from your super special secret book collection, and instead of being proud of you for finding the thief, your boss fired you?”

“That is a gross oversimplification of a very complex--” 

Therion felt himself relax. If he could fluster Cyrus, he wouldn't have those scrutinizing eyes on him, trying to read his secrets. Plus, it was fun to watch the crimson blush leak onto the scholar's cheeks. “And you were going to go hunt down some other book thief before you ran into me? And now you’re stealing books yourself. Seems a little hypocritical, no?”

“Well if you’re going to be completely unreasonable about it and not let me explain,” Cyrus waved a hand dismissively. 

Therion grinned. “Then explain.”

Cyrus thought for a moment. “I wanted to read this book.”

“And you wanted to read the other books you’re ‘recovering’, I bet.”

“I believe I see what you are trying to deduce here, sir.”

Therion smiled. “Welcome to the world of flexible ownership, Professor.”


	5. Orlick's Manse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this one's weird.

After a lunch at the tavern, Therion and Cyrus made their way to the north part of town, where the scholar lived. Therion had pilfered a round of cheese from the marketplace, remembering that Barham had talked about Orlick's weird tastes, and hoped the cheese was stinky enough. As they approached, a large dog announced their arrival to the pair of guards at the gate.

“Halt!” the guard called. “You are trespassing on private property!”

Cyrus threw up his hands, and Therion squared his weight on his feet.

“Ho there, sir!” Cyrus called, flashing a disarming grin. “We mean no harm. I'm here to call on a friend of mine, Professor Orlick.”

“He's not expecting any visitors today,” the guard said, gruffly.

“No, he wouldn't be,” Cyrus said. “I’m a former colleague of his, from the University in Atlasdam. I ended up in town on other business, and I heard he resided here, so I thought I'd pay him a visit.”

The guard looked Cyrus up and down, affirming that he at least resembled what he claimed to be. Satisfied, he turned his gaze on Therion.

“This is my research assistant,” Cyrus explained.

“He don't look like a scholar,” the guard said.

“He's a graduate student,” Cyrus said. “The pay for TAs these days is abysmal.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Therion whispered. 

“We've brought the Professor a gift,” Cyrus said.

The guard frowned. “I guess I could go ask. What did you say your name was?”

“Professor Cyrus Albright,” he smiled. The guard nodded. “Oh, and if you could--” Cyrus called as the guard started towards the house, “if he has trouble remembering my name, ask him to recall ‘the truth of all things.’”

“Right,” the guard said, turning.

“Is that some kind of cryptic mind control spell, or something?” Therion asked, once the guard was out of earshot.

“Mind control? I'm a scholar, not some dark wizard,” Cyrus scoffed. “It's the motto of Orlick's fraternity.”

Therion gave him a sideways look. “Were you in a fraternity?”

“Do I look like I was in a fraternity?”

They heard footsteps approaching as the guard returned. They both straightened.

“Looks like Master Orlick will see you,” the guard said. “This way, please.”

Cyrus grinned at Therion, and the two followed the guard into the house.

The manse was large and luxurious, nearing House Ravus standards. Therion leaned close to Cyrus and whispered, “I didn't think scholars got paid this well.”

“We don't,” Cyrus whispered. “His family has money. Most likely how he could afford to purchase a stolen Dragonstone.”

The guard opened the door and stood aside. Standing at the end of the hall, looking at them apprehensively, was a fat scholar in bulky orange robes.

“Orlick, it's been some time!” Cyrus called out.

“By the Gods, Albright, it is you!” the scholar said. “Come, come into the parlor, I'll have my man prepare us some tea.”

Therion followed Cyrus. As the two scholars shook hands and clapped each other on the back, he felt Orlick's eyes slide across him. He could have sworn he saw the large man's nostrils flare, like he was sniffing him. When Cyrus introduced him, he opted for a low head bow instead of a handshake. When he looked up, Orlick was looking at him with an uneasy intensity. Cyrus didn't seem to notice-- or if he did notice, it didn't put him off his enthusiasm.

The pungent cheese went with the butler, who was going to cut some of it to serve with crackers and dried fruit with the tea. The three men sat on plush sofas in Orlick's ornate parlor, and Therion tried to overcome the uncomfortable feeling of Orlick's glances. The two scholars were chatting about people they knew in Atlasdam--juicy gossip, news, and hearsay. Therion fingered the bronze key in his pocket. Finally, when they started nerding out about research findings and lost ancient tomes, Therion cleared his throat to interrupt.

“Sorry, excuse me,” he said. “May I use your privy?” 

“Yes, yes,” Orlick said. “Out that door, down the hallway, at the very end of the hall.”

“Thanks,” Therion said, rising. Cyrus went right back into the topic he was rambling on about, and Therion tried to ignore the feeling of Orlick's eyes on his back as he left the room.

He slipped out the door and wandered down the hall, trying each door he passed. The locked one would be the study. He had to meander down a few corridors to find it, but he did. Slipping the key from his pocket, he slid it into the lock. It turned smoothly, and Therion creaked open the door. 

In the center of the room, resting on a white clothed table, was the ruby Dragonstone. Therion smiled. It was too easy. He stepped forward, watching the shifting light glitter off the ruby's facets. The stone had affected Barham, and supposedly Orlick, too. If he touched it, would something horrible happen to him?

Lost in his thoughts, Therion didn't hear the man enter the room behind him. Padding forward, slippered feet nearly silent on carpeted floors, Orlick snuck up behind the thief. He had a handkerchief in is hand. A floorboard creaked beneath the fat scholar's foot, but before Therion could react, the scholar had looped a thick arm around his shoulders, and pressed the handkerchief over his nose and mouth. An acrid, chemical smell filled Therion's nostrils, and he started feeling lightheaded and dizzy. He felt his muscles relax involuntarily and he crumpled to the ground, Orlick keeping the cloth pressed tight against his face.

 _Drugged…_ Therion thought, and he felt Orlick scoop up his limp body.

The fat scholar laid Therion on a nearby narrow tabletop. The room spun beneath him. He had been drunk before--wasted, before--but this was far different. He felt as if he were in someone else's body, his mind only barely attached. Everytime he tried to move, his muscles either didn't respond, or they twitched in some random direction. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Orlick said. “I knew what you were after the minute you walked through my door.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the ruby Dragonstone- the real ruby Dragonstone. “Did Barham tell you it was locked away in this room? That's why I made a fake! I bet you paid a pretty price for a useless key.” Orlick traced his fingers over Therion’s lips. The thief tried to move away and shout curses at the same time, only succeeding in sliding his lips over Orlick’s fingers.

“Haha, I know exactly what that creep set as his price,” Orlick said. “He never knows the true value of a pretty piece. Not like me. I saw you walk in, and I could already taste you.”

Therion, his vocal cords not working, could only manage a muffled groan as Orlick pulled up his tunic and undershirt, exposing the thief's chest. “Quite the little morsel, you are,” Orlick said, licking his lips. “I will make sure to relish the taste of you.”

Therion felt the panic, but it was diluted, as if it were happening in a dream. He felt the wet warmth of Orlick's mouth as he pressed it mouth against Therion’s chest. The thief managed to kick weakly with one foot and wiggle an elbow, but that was all he could make his body do in protest. Orlick’s tongue teased his left nipple, sucking gently, as his fingers pinched the right. Orlick’s mouth moved hungrily, sampling from the thief’s sternum, belly button, and hipbone. Therion vocalized another indeterminate protest as the fat scholar unhooked his belt, and slid the thief’s trousers down to his ankles.

“What is this?” Orlick flicked the metal device caging Therion’s cock with a finger. “You’re a dirty little piece, aren't you?” Therion was able to jerk his knees a bit, and twist his head. “Forbidden fruit is all the more appetizing,” Orlick said, and rolled Therion over onto his stomach.

Therion felt like he was drowning in air. Gravity didn't seem to be working right. It took his brain several minutes to register that his body had turned, his face now pressed into the tabletop. It took him a few more moments to realize that Orlick had pulled up on his hips, bending him slightly at the waist. It took him even longer to understand that the warm, wet prodding he was experiencing was Orlick’s tongue and mouth, devouring his ass.

Therion tried to move his arms, but one was pinned under the weight of his chest, and he couldn't feel the other one. Concentrating, fighting against the muddle of his mind and the tingling of Orlick’s efforts, he was able to kick out with a foot, making contact with the fat scholar’s side.

“Oof… hey!” Orlick said. Therion had felt a little pride at fighting the drug, until he felt a sharp stab on the back of his thigh. His muscles gave a subdued, involuntary flinch of pain.

“Behave yourself, or else I’ll have to bite you again,” Orlick said, and his tongue returned to sampling Therion’s sensitive places.

Through his hazy mind, Therion could hear an urgent knock at the door.

“Orlick? Orlick, my good man! I have found something rather intriguing in this volume of yours!” Cyrus’ voice carried through the door.

Orlick pulled away and snarled, “Piss off, idiot.”

Therion urged his limbs to move, but his muscles only responded in clumsy jerks “Cy…” Therion tried to call out, but his voice could only find the first syllable. He clawed weakly out with a free hand.

Orlick slapped his hand away easily. “Stop fighting. You’re not getting away,” he said.

The knocking came again, insistant. “Say, you haven't happened to see the companion with whom I had arrived? Orlick?”

“Gah!” Orlick said, stomping towards the door. “Interrupting my mealtime…” he picked up a staff from a shelf, clutching it like a club. Therion concentrated, able to slide himself onto his side. Perhaps the drug was wearing off. He watched as Orlick opened the door. “What do you want, you pompous…”

“Greetings,” Cyrus said, and swung the heavy volume in his hands. It cracked against Orlick’s skull. The fat scholar’s body fell to the floor. He groaned. Cyrus bent over to hit Orlick again, while Therion fumbled to pull his trousers back on. Cyrus nudged Orlick’s body with the toe of his boot, frowning at the blood pooling behind his head. He turned to Therion, who was awkwardly failing to rise from the table.

“I think it's best that we vacate the premises,” Cyrus said, tucking the book under one arm, and stooping to help turn Therion upright.

“Wa...,” the thief said, and tumbled down as he tried to crouch. “The… ru--”

“Good Gods, what has he done?” Cyrus said, noticing the handkerchief next to Therion on the floor. He picked it up gingerly, wafting a scent of it with one hand. He shuddered, and tossed it across the room. “He's drugged you!”

“Nah… shi…” Therion panted, awkwardly trying to jerk his muscles into action. “St… stone!” he managed, pointing with his eyes at Orlick.

“Oh, right, the Dragonstone!” Cyrus said, rising. He strode over to the fake one on the table.

“Nah!” Therion shouted, using all of his energy. “Pah… pock!”

“You want me to go through his pockets?” Cyrus frowned. “I certainly hope he isn't dead.” Cyrus crouched over the fallen scholar, feeling for a pulse. “Oh, good,” he said.

“Stone!” Therion said, managing a complete word this time, and feeling accomplished. 

Cyrus reached into the scholar's robes and pulled out the ruby. Therion weakly reached for it. Cyrus handed it to him, while scooping him up under his arm. Therion was able to convince his legs to support about half of his weight, while the rest of him leaned on Cyrus. His face fell against the scholar's neck. He smelled vaguely of cedar and clove.

“Now we leave,” Cyrus said, and the two of them hobbled their way out of the study, hoping to find a back door.

\--- --- ---

The two had stumbled out to the outskirts of Noblecourt, finding a way inside one of the old windmills that had been repurposed to form the city wall. They had no idea when Orlick would wake and alert the city watch that they had stolen his prized possession. Therion had felt the feeling come back to his limbs as they walked, and started to feel in control of himself as Cyrus propped him against the stone wall inside the old windmill, and gathered some firewood to give them some light. Cyrus sat in front of the unlit pile with a hand extended.

“With any luck, he'll accuse Barham, and they'll get in a huge argument, giving us time to escape,” Therion said.

“Quiet please, I need to concentrate,” Cyrus said. 

Therion frowned. “On what?”

“Fire!” Cyrus called, and with a wave of his hand, the pile of dry sticks in front of him ignited.

“Holy shit!” Therion said. “You know magic? Do all scholars know magic?”

“Only the good ones,” Cyrus said, setting back to sit near Therion. “I can teach you, if you like.”

“Really?” Therion asked, staring into the flames.

“Certainly,” Cyrus said. “It's my vocation. At least, it was.”

A silence fell over both of them as they watched the flames dance.

“Look, man, back there, I--” Therion began, but he couldn't find any words beyond that. 

“At Orlick’s?” Cyrus said. “You’re most welcome.” 

Therion was confused. “No, I mean… what you saw.” He felt the color rush to his cheeks.

“That was the Dragonstone,” Cyrus said.

“What?”

Cyrus pulled out the book he had used to thwart Orlick, which still had a bit of blood on the cover. He opened to a dog-eared page, and traced over a few lines with an index finger.

“The stones are said to have mind-altering properties,” Cyrus read. “Those that are in the proximity of the stones have described a weakening of their civilized notions of social etiquette and an overwhelming urge to return to their baser, more animalistic instincts. Jealous wrath, insatiable gluttony, and deviant lusts have all be experienced by those in extended contact with the stones.”

Therion suddenly felt the weight of the ruby in his pocket.

“Thus explains Orlick’s highly unsavory behavior,” Cyrus reasoned.

“I guess it explains a lot.” Therion fished the gem out of his pocket. “So this thing is going to turn me into a sex pervert?” 

Cyrus eyed it, but leaned away from it. “I would suggest limiting contact with it. Perhaps some kind of container. The thicker the better.”

Therion rummaged in his baggy tunic and pulled out a leather coin pouch he had filched. He dropped the ruby inside, then wiped his hand on his thigh as if to rub any residue off. Cyrus watched him, inquisitive, as the thief buried the coin pouch in his pocket.

“Also, what you thought I was going to say…” Therion said. “When you said ‘you’re welcome.’”

“That you were expressing gratitude for my aid in spiriting you away from that manse?” Cyrus asked.

“Yeah,” the thief said. “No one… people don’t usually go out of their way to help me.”

“It sounds like you need friends of a higher caliber,” Cyrus quipped.

Therion laughed. “I don't have friends.”

“You have at least one,” the scholar said. He smiled. 

Therion repressed the urge to smile back. _Don't get too close. Don't get too comfortable,_ he warned himself. _Remember what happened last time._


	6. Returning the Ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia might have some issues.

“You seem terribly quiet this morning,” the scholar said. “Is something amiss?”

“I’m fine.” said the thief.

“Are you sure? Because--”

“I’m FINE.” Therion said.

“All right.” Cyrus said, and stopped talking. 

It was strange to be in the company of a silent Cyrus. But Therion couldn't shake his dreams from his head. It had to be the ruby. Even though he was keeping it wrapped, his dreams the previous nights had been very… explicit. He'd dreamt of Cyrus’ hands caressing his naked body. He'd dreamt of the taste of the scholar’s come on his tongue. He'd dreamt of the sensation of Cyrus entering him, filling him. In the middle of the night they had spent in the tiny woodland inn, Therion had woken, his loins attempting to stiffen, aching against the restraining device. He had actually gotten up and crossed the room to where the scholar was sleeping. He had peeled back the covers and started lowering himself into the bed, wanting to press his body against Cyrus’, to make his dreams a reality. But as he set his knee on the mattress, Cyrus has turned over in his sleep, mumbling something about quadratic equations. Therion snapped to his senses, and snuck out of the room into the cold night air, vowing to stay awake for the rest of the night. That Godsdammed ruby. It had happened in much the same way every night since, leaving Therion unable to sleep during the night, or look at Cyrus during the day.

It had taken the two of them a few days to travel from the Flatlands back to the Cliftlands, spending more than they would have liked on inn beds to stay out of the chill of the northern nights. Therion would have some work to do when they made it to real civilization in Boulderfall. But before anything else, he was going to get rid of the damned stone, even if that meant facing the sadistic Cordelia Ravus again. Maybe he could bargain to get the fool's device removed.

“Ahh, Boulderfall!” Cyrus exclaimed, breaking the long silence. “I do believe this marks the record for the farthest west I've ever traveled.”

“Good for you,” Therion grumbled.

“What's put you in such a foul mood?” 

“Why do you give a shit?” Therion asked. 

“Come now,” Cyrus frowned.

Therion couldn't help himself. The frustration that had been building in him from weeks of impossible desire, the dreams the ruby had been subjecting him to and his struggle to stay awake each night to avoid them, and the impending encounter in Ravus Manor. Cyrus' typical cheerful enthusiasm was rubbing him the wrong way.

“I have business with this damn stone I need to take care of,” Therion snapped. “You don't. You just go enjoy your little vacation time, then.”

Cyrus furrowed his brow. “I only wanted to help you,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I never asked for it,” Therion said. He needed to ditch the ruby before he could get his own thoughts sorted out.

Cyrus studied him. “If you didn't want me to accompany you, you should have said something earlier.”

“Maybe I should have.” Therion couldn't look him in the eye without last night's dreams flooding back into his brain.

The scholar's shoulders visibly slumped. “Very well,” he said. “I'll be on my way to Quarrycrest, then. Good luck with your future endeavors.”

“Yeah. Bye.” Therion crossed his arms. As Cyrus turned to walk away down the Boulderfall street, Therion felt his stomach sink. He shook his head. It's for the best, he thought. You were starting to actually enjoy his company. Nothing good could have come of that.

The thief turned and headed uphill, towards Ravus Manor, trying not to think about Cyrus walking the other direction.

The guards and their dogs were still there, and he slowed as he approached. A guard held up a hand to stop him. “No entry permitted,” he said.

“Oi, I know you,” another guard in the distance called. He jogged up, his armor clanking. “You're that thief.”

As the guard came closer, Therion thought he recognized him: one of the guards that had held him down, ripped off his clothes, witnessed his first humiliation. Therion fought the urge to drop his eyes, instead staring up at the guard in anger. He couldn't fight the redness creeping across his cheeks, however.

“A thief?!” the first guard said, alarmed. “Shall we summon the watch?”

“Nah, the Mistress knows this one,” the second guard said. He grinned devilishly. “She knows him real good.”

“I need to talk to her,” Therion said, summoning all the confidence he could muster. “I've brought her the first stone.”

“Have ya, now?” the second guard looked impressed. “In barely any time at all! That thing she put on ya must be drivin ya batty.”

Therion swallowed his embarrassment. “Is she here, or not?”

“Yeah, she's in,” the guard said. “Oi, Jonathan,” he called to his colleague. “Run inside and tell the Mistress her thief's come back with her jewel.” The first guard saluted and trotted off. “Though she probably already knows. She's always watchin.”

Therion waited, arms crossed, for what seemed like ages. He tried his best not to make eye contact with the guard, who was smirking and chuckling to himself. Finally, the other guard returned.

“Heathcote says to send him in,” the first guard said. “And we're to remain at our posts.”

“Aww,” the leering guard said. “I was hoping for another show.”

Therion shot him an angry glance before walking up the drive to the front doors. Trying the latch, he found the heavy door unlocked. He pushed it open, apprehensively.

The grand front hall of the manor was empty, and eerily dim. Sunlight poured in through the front windows, but after a few yards, the cavernous expanse was settled in shadow. Therion's footsteps echoed on the marble floor, and the door swung shut behind him with a grumbling finality that made him uneasy.

“Hello?” Therion called, his voice echoing up the grand staircase, into the dark balcony. “I have the ruby, but I want to talk first.”

“Disrobe,” a voice echoed from somewhere above him. It was the butler's voice, but as Therion scanned the upper floor balconies, he couldn't see where it was coming from.

“I said, I want to talk,” the thief insisted.

“Disrobe,” the voice repeated. “Bring only the stone. The Mistress will hear you out, but we need assurances you bear no ill intent.”

“Son of a bitch."

“Take off your clothes, or leave this place and return when you have all three.”

Grumbling more curses under his breath, Therion pulled off his tunic and scarf.

“You may leave them on the sofa to your left,” Heathcote's voice echoed again. “They will be returned to you.”

Therion crossed the hall to the plush sofa, sitting on it to tug off his boots. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, dropping them in a heap on the sofa. He stood, wearing only the leather collar Cordelia had locked around his neck, and the metal chastity device she had locked around his cock. He rummaged through the many pockets of his discarded tunic for the coin purse containing the ruby.

“That's a good boy,” Heathcote's voice said. “Now, up the stairs, down the hall on the right. Try not to steal anything on your way.”

Clenching his fist around the coin pouch, Therion started up the stairs. The plush crimson carpet comforted his bare feet, but the air was cold against his skin. Goosebumps tickled he arms and legs as he ascended in full view of anyone looking over the upper story balconies into the great hall. The house felt paradoxically empty and full of lurking eyes at the same time. He reached the top of the stairs, made his way tentatively to the right hallway, and looked down the darkened corridor. He shuddered. A single candle burnt on a nearby table. Therion snatched it up, his only light and warmth as he made his way down the shadowy hallway.

Therion strained his ears for sounds. There had to be someone watching him, following him. All he could hear was his own breathing, which seemed unbearably loud. All the doorways he passed were dark. He approached the end of the hallway, where a large door blocked any further movement. No light came from beneath it. He held the candlelight close. The door handle was gold, decorated with ornate filigree. He tried it. It clicked open into the dark room beyond.

“Oh good, you've figured out where to go,” Cordelia's voice came from somewhere in the darkness. “Come inside, pet.”

“I want to talk, first,” Therion said, his eyes scanning the darkness, seeing nothing. “I want you to take this damn thing off me. I brought you the first stone, and I swear I'll get you the others, but I need you to--”

“Yap, yap, yap,” Cordelia interrupted. “Such a noisy puppy. I'll take it off, as long as you quit your barking.”

“Wha-- really?”

“Sure,” Cordelia said, still hidden in the darkness. “You've already exceeded my expectations. Come inside, I'll let you out of it.”

Therion couldn't believe it was that easy. He stepped forward into the dark room, holding the candle in front of him. The circle of light it emitted seemed impossibly small.

“Take care, pet,” Cordelia said, sounding closer. “You'll feel a rug beneath your feet, soon.”

As soon as she said that, Therion felt the softness beneath his toes. 

“Kneel down there, please,” Cordelia said. “You can set the candle beside you.”

Therion did as he was told. She'd already agreed to what he wanted, he didn't want to mess it up now. As he set the candlestick down, it illuminated a shiny black length of satin cloth.

“You see that cloth, there?” Cordelia said. “It's a blindfold. Put it on.”

Therion looked quizzically into the darkness, in the direction he assumed the voice came from.

“I'm feeling rather shy today, pet,” Cordelia said. “I'd like to put the lights up, but I don't want you to see me. Heathcote will make sure you've tied it tight.”

Shaking his head, Therion set the ruby between his knees, and picked up the blindfold. He wrapped it over his eyes, tying it behind his head. To his surprise, hands grabbed the ends from him, securing it tightly. He hadn't even been aware Heathcote was behind him.

Lights were being lit in the room, which Therion could see only a miniscule amount of through the tiny spaces under the blindfold at the bridge of his nose. Otherwise, the cloth blocked most of the light. He could hear footsteps around him-- at least three people walking around, lighting lamps. From the tread, they all sounded like men.

“Oh, my little pet, it makes me so happy to see you again!” Cordelia gushed from somewhere in front of him. “And you have my ruby?”

Therion grabbed the pouch from between his knees. “We had a deal,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Cordelia said. “Heathcote has the key, and he's right beside you. Get up a bit on your knees, and he'll take it off of you. Then you give him the stone.”

Therion obeyed, and he felt the butler's fingers grab the device. He tried his best not to flinch, holding tight to the ruby with both hands. There came a few clicks, and Therion felt the device loosen and pull away from his skin. He almost sighed in relief, touching with his fingers to make sure it was actually gone. 

“The ruby?” Heathcote asked impatiently. Therion held it out, and felt the weight lift from his hand. The butler walked it over to his Mistress, his footsteps echoing. Therion sank to a sitting position.

“What about this?” Therion asked, fingering the collar on his neck.

“That comes off after I get the other two, pet.” Cordelia said. “Don't get greedy.”

“So I can go now?” Therion asked. “Where's the second one at?”

“But I haven't seen you in so long!” Cordelia said. “I've missed you! And that pretty little mouth of yours! Heathcote, be a dear and walk him over here, will you?”

There was a click below Therion's chin, and a tug on his collar. Heathcote had reappeared near Therion, hooked a leash onto the leather collar, and was now pulling him forward across the room. Therion fell forward onto his hands and knees, but Heathcote didn't pause to let him stand. The thief was forced to scramble on all fours, naked and blindfolded, across the room. The butler stopped suddenly, and Therion collided with his calves. Heathcote gave him a little kick in his side. Therion tried to recoil, but the butler held the leash too close.

“Aww, pet,” Cordelia crooned, right in front of him now. He felt her fingers comb through his hair, and another stroked his jaw, lifting his chin so she could look down into his face. Therion tried to turn away, but she held fast to his hair. “Behave yourself, and we won't have to punish you this time,” she said, tracing her fingers over the thief's lips. “You don't want mean old Heathcote to hurt you like last time, do you?”

Therion shook his head.

“Then you're going to be a nice little puppy and follow all my commands, right?” She slid her fingers past his lips, into his mouth.

Therion hated himself for it, but he nodded.

“Good boy,” Cordelia said. “But if you're going to be a puppy, you're going to need a tail to wag.” She spread her fingers, opening his mouth. Something hard and smooth pushed into his mouth, pressing against his tongue. It was heavy, made of ceramic or solid glass. Cordelia wiggled it around his lips a little, and laughed.

“You'll want to get it nice and wet, now,” Cordelia said. “This is the other end of it,” she teased a furry whisp against his cheek. “You getting it, pet? It's for you! Now, where does a puppy wear his tail, hmm?”

Therion grabbed the thing in his mouth as Cordelia released it, feeling where the fur was attached to the bulbous bit she had shoved between his lips. “You got your stone, let me go. I'll get you your other ones.”

“If you don't put your tail in, Heathcote will do it for you,” Cordelia said.

“Fucking crazy bitch,” Therion said, reaching for the blindfold. Before he could get it, Cordelia grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. He fell into what felt like her lap, as she wrenched his hands behind his back, his face falling into the cloth of her dress between her thighs. She was seated, so when she pulled him forward, his hips lifted his ass into the air. He felt Heathcote grab the tail from his hands.

“Wait, wait--” Therion's protest was muffled with his face squeezed between Cordelia's legs. Heathcote smacked his rear with the same stinging slap as last time, but instead of continuing, Therion felt the wet end of the tail press against his opening. He squirmed, but Cordelia leaned her weight down on his back, crushing his head further into her thighs. Heathcote was relentless, and the thief cried out into the folds of Cordelia's dress as the bulge popped past his defenses.

“Ahh! It's so cute!” Cordelia gushed, releasing Therion's head. He pulled back, but didn't make it very far- she held tight to the leash.

“Stay on your hands and knees, if you know what's good for you,” Heathcote said.

Therion felt his face burning. The blindfold had started to slip, but not enough for him to see anything. Cordelia readjusted it, while stroking his heated cheeks.

“Don't fret, puppy,” she cooed. “I'm going to give you a choice. You pick what you like best. You can either be a nice little lapdog, and climb up by me, and I'll pet you while you rub your belly. Well, not really your belly, but it must have been some time for you with that device on, no?”

Therion didn't have enough blood left to blush any redder.

“Or,” Cordelia continued, “you be a mean old guard dog, and Heathcote and the nice soldiers in here will do what they can to quiet your barks. You know, with their cocks down your throat.”

Therion suddenly wondered if he has miscounted, and there were more than two or three guards in the room. He had no way to tell.

“So what'll it be, pet? Are you a lapdog? Or a guard dog?”

“I'll… I'll do what you want,” Therion said, barely louder than a whisper.

“Oh, no, I want to hear what kind of dog you are.” Cordelia teased.

Therion felt the last scrap of his pride crumble within him. He seethed with anger, but he knew that giving into it would make things worse for him. He succumbed to the humiliation.

“I'm a Godsdammed lapdog,” he said.

Cordelia laughed loudly. “Then come on up here, pretty pet.” She tugged on his collar, and Therion felt with his hands the edge of the sofa she sat upon. He climbed up shakily, aware of every bobble of the tail stuck inside of him. Cordelia stroked his hair as she moved him, with gentle hands, having him lay down half on his side, half on his back with his blindfolded head in her lap. Had it been another situation, where it had been his choice, someone he cared for, it would have been intimate. He had a sudden recollection of waking up on the coach to Noblecourt with his head in Cyrus' lap. The parallels made his stomach turn.

“That's it, little puppy,” Cordelia said, running her hands over his chest and stomach. Therion shuddered at the touch. With one hand, she lifted his knee, exposing him. “It must have been so difficult for you.” She took his hand, and moved it against his stirring length. “You pet this part for me, and I'll pet the rest. You're only free to go after I see that you're satisfied.”

For the first time in this nightmare, Therion was thankful for the blindfold. If he had to look this devil woman in the eyes while she forced him to masturbate for her, he may well simply die on the spot. He took hold of himself, and arousal came quickly-- that part of himself hadn't been touched in weeks, now.

As he stroked, trying to ignore the potential room full of people who might be watching him, Cordelia's fingers toyed with his hair and stroked his stomach. Her touch twirled around his nipples, giving them a slight pinch every so often. Therion felt the desire building inside of him, growing quickly after the weeks of frustration, fueled by the fantasy dreams the ruby had been filling his mind with on the journey from Noblecourt. Cordelia traced his lips and slid her fingers into his mouth, and his tongue moved despite himself to caress her fingertips. His lips closed and he sucked at her fingers, because in his mind he was somewhere else, she was someone else. The tension built and built, and he felt the muscles in his thighs and abdomen start to shake with the tightness. 

Cordelia bent close to his ear. “You're thinking of someone, pet,” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. “Tell me who she is.”

Therion gasped as the release came, pleasure rocking through his nerves, his muscles quivering, and the warm seed spilling onto his chest. Cordelia pulled back her hands, so she wouldn't dirty them with his come.

“I wonder what she would say if she saw you with me, pet?” Cordelia said. “Do you think she would be jealous?”

“He,” Therion said, not quite aware of saying it. His mind was still swirling from his first orgasm in weeks, the drudged-up memories playing through his brain.

“Really,” Cordelia said. “That sharply dressed fellow you came into town with? That you had the argument with?” She ruffled his hair. “Ah, my eyes are everywhere, pet. Nothing happens in this town that I don't know about.”

Therion's breath caught in his throat. Not because she had guessed it, but because she was wrong. He hadn't been thinking of Cyrus. He hadn't thought about that other face from his past for a long time. He thought he had drank all those memories out of his mind.

Cordelia turned him to his side with a gentle touch. Still swirling in afterglow and his own confused memories, he barely realized as she slid the tail out of him. His muscles offered no resistance. 

“You did what I asked, little pet,” Cordelia said. “We hear the next one's up for sale in Wellspring. The emerald.” There was a click under his chin, as the leash was unsnapped. Then there was another click, as he felt metal tighten around the hilt of his shaft.

“Hey, we had a deal!” Therion said, his hands reaching to feel what had been put on him.

“Relax, it's not the whole thing,” Cordelia said. “See for yourself.” She moved his hand down to feel a smooth metal ring around the base of his shaft, about as thick as his pinky finger. There was a tiny indentation where some kind of key slid in to unlock it at the bottom, but it didn't seem like any lock he was familiar with.

“See him out, please.” Cordelia said. “I'm done with him.”

“Hey, wait--” Therion’s protests fell on deaf ears as each guard grabbed one of his arms and dragged him out of the room, still blindfolded.

“You should bring the emerald back with the same punctuality as this one,” Heathcote said, following behind them. “The Mistress may do you some more favors.”

“That's her idea of a fucking favor?!” Therion said, but they were quickly down the back stairs and out the same side door of the manor he had been tossed out the last time. The blindfold was ripped off, and the sudden sunlight blinded him. The guards unceremoniously dumped him on the ground.

“My clothes!” Therion yelled back at the house, still shielding his eyes from the light l.

“Next to you,” Heathcote said. He tossed a linen towel at the thief. Therion caught it before it hit him in the face. “Clean yourself up before you get back in your rags.”

Therion wanted to shout so many things at the butler, but he couldn't give voice to any before the door slammed shut. Face burning, he wiped his own come from his chest and stomach, and threw the used towel back at the door.

He looked down at the metal ring Cordelia had left on him. It was a shiny silver, engraved with the words “Property of House Ravus.” 

His body and mind both felt utterly exhausted. The confusion, the memories, the dreams… the desire and the rage… he cursed Cordelia Ravus. If she had just decided to just have him beaten every time he saw her, he might prefer that. He could make sense of that. But the teasing, the humiliation, the manipulation, the reminders of his past… that was why he hated her.

He pulled his clothes on, and stumbled away from the gates, into a forgotten back alley behind a low stone wall. He sank to the ground, pulling his knees into his chest.

It had been a long time since he had felt so alone.

He closed his eyes, angrily threatening the wetness behind them against turning into tears. 

“I'll be on my way to Quarrycrest, then,” the caramel voice echoed in his memory. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear it again.


	7. Quarrycrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consensual heterosexual sex? In this story? What?

“Skystones! The prettiest gem you'll see in all of Quarrycrest! Get your skystones here!” The young merchant’s voice carried across the town square, demanding Cyrus' attention. He strolled by the blanket she had set up, admiring the glittering green stones adorning it.

“Want a skystone, mister?” she asked, a warm grin on her face.

“I'd like to examine one, if I could,” he said. The young merchant bent to grab one and sprung back up, the long feather in her cap bouncing. Cyrus took the stone from her, holding it up to the light.

“Fascinating,” he said, turning the gem so it shone. “I must devote some more time to geology and mineralogy.”

“I can get you a good deal,” the merchant said.

“Sadly, I have been nearly depleted of funds,” the scholar said. The merchant's face sank. “However,” Cyrus dropped his voice conspiratorially, “I'm here to see a friend, and I'm fairly sure I can convince her to purchase one from you. Perhaps two, she may want one herself. She is a geologist, after all.”

The young merchant smiled, taking the stone from Cyrus. “Then I'll set this one aside for when you come back.”

“That'll do,” Cyrus said. “Except I'm not sure where she lives. Do you happen to know anything about the residence of a scholar named Odette?”

The merchant shook her head. “I'm not from here,” she said. “But I did hear someone mention a scholar living up that hill there?” she pointed behind her.

“I'll inquire,” Cyrus said. “Many thanks, young lady.”

“It's Tressa,” she said. “See you around!”

After knocking on a few random doors and making flustered apologies, Cyrus finally found the door he was looking for.

“As I live and breathe,” Odette said, as she opened the door, “if it isn't Cyrus Albright. I knew you'd come crawling back to me someday.”

Cyrus flung out his cloak in an exaggerated, swooping bow. “Odette, I have been tormented in the depths of despair without the melody of your voice and the splendor of your visage. I fling myself upon your venerable mercy and beg that you deem this pitiful soul worthy of your glance.” He looked up at her with a smile.

Odette laughed. “Come inside, you melodramatic fool.”

“Much obliged.”

\--- --- ---

Therion arrived in Quarrycrest much quicker than he had thought. Whether it was anger, hope, or desperation that fueled him, he couldn't say. As he walked through the town square, a young merchant was hawking trinkets.

“Skystones! Best skystones in all of Quarrycrest, right here!” he called, and seemed to be drawing quite a crowd. Quite a distracted crowd, Therion thought, eyeing the unattended pockets. He slid in closer, raising his sticky fingers.

“I hope you're not trying to take something that's not yours,” a voice beside him warned. 

Therion nearly jumped out of his boots. “Holy hell, where did you come from?” He stared at the girl in the feathered hat and bulging backpack.

“I'm a merchant,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “and all merchants can smell a thief.” She sniffed dramatically.

“Uhh…” Therion took a step backwards. “Right. Just looking at this guys… rocks, or whatever.”

“Pssh, my skystones are way better,” the merchant girl crossed her arms angrily over her chest. “Mine are the originals. Then this guy comes in and steals my customers! Talk about rude!”

“Look, scary little girl,” Therion started.

“I'm eighteen.”

“Whatever. I'm just trying to find my friend. Not trying to cause trouble.”

“Probably a scholar, your friend?”

Therion stared at her. “How did you know?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone's looking for scholars these days, I guess. Not my skystones. Up the hill,” she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

“Uhhh… thanks, I guess.”

“I'm watching you, thief,” she said, pointing to her eyes, and then at Therion.

Shivering, Therion started up the hill.

He passed a few houses, half expecting to see Cyrus sitting on the porch of one, studying a book and sipping iced tea. He had no such luck. Instead, he happened on a girl in a lilac dress peering in the window of one of the houses. Curious, he crept closer to watch her. If she was trying to case the place, she was doing it all wrong.

The girl leaned over, losing her footing and tumbling over with a little squeal. As she hurriedly picked herself up, she locked eyes with Therion.

“What do you want?” she shouted. “I wasn't doing anything! I was just looking!”

Therion held up his hands. “I didn't say anything.”

“Creepy weirdo,” the girl said, stomping past, her long braid swishing behind her. “He's not even back yet, anyway.”

Therion watched her go, puzzled. Then he turned towards the house she had been staring into. He looked in the window, seeing nothing inside but an ordinary sitting room, shelves of books lining the walls. On a table near the far wall, he saw a few glittering lumps of ore. He checked behind him. The path was empty. He slid towards the door. He knocked lightly before trying the latch. It was locked, but the bent pin he always carried in his pocket made short work of that. The lock clicked open, and Therion stole inside quickly, making sure to step with his right foot first.

Shutting the door behind his back, Therion held his breath, listening. There was no movement. His eyes slid around the room-- the amount of books rivaled Barham’s study. There was a writing desk, maybe with a few leaves squirreled away inside, a sofa with a coffee table, and a closet across from him-- he would have to check that. He crept across the room to the table of gems he had spied. Mineral samples, or something. He snatched one of the glittering ones up, studying it. He frowned. He used to know a way to tell fool's gold from the real thing without having to bite it, but he couldn't remember. Who had told him that? Therion's heart sank when he remembered. _Darius. It was Darius who knew gold._

Voices from outside the door reached Therion's ears. He froze, panicked. He scanned the room for a second exit, a hiding place. There was a doorway to what he assumed was a kitchen to his left, no way of knowing if it was a dead end or not. The closet was to his right. Therion heard footsteps on the porch stairs. He dove for the closet. He had just nestled himself in between some dresses and cloaks when the door opened, and a woman stepped inside. Therion peered out through the angled slats in the closet door- thick enough to conceal him, but enough for him to peer through if he was close to the door. Since the closet was stuffed full, he was necessarily shoved up close.

“Did I forget to lock it?” the woman asked her companion behind her. “Goodness, you must be a bigger distraction than I remember.”

“Why, between my dashing good looks and overwhelming charm, it's a miracle you could remember where the market was.”

Therion's heart lifted when he heard that voice. He pressed his face close to the slatted door to watch Cyrus step through the doorway, carrying a cloth sack of groceries.

“Cyrus, stop,” the woman teased, smiling wide. “You're too much.”

“You want these in the kitchen, then?”

“Yes, please,” she said, and dropped into an overstuffed armchair. “And bring the wine. There's glasses in the cabinet.”

“It's the middle of the afternoon,” Cyrus said, crossing to the kitchen.

“All the more reason to drink,” the woman said, kicking off her heeled shoes. Therion watched her from the closet as she massaged the arches of her feet. Blonde, mid to late thirties, pretty, wearing a scholar's cloak over a stylishly cut dark dress. He didn't like her.

Cyrus emerged with two wine glasses in hand and a bottle tucked under his arm. He set the glasses on the coffee table, and sat on the sofa to work on the cork.

“Thank you, you're such a dear,” the woman said.

“The least I could do while you're letting me stay here is earn my keep,” Cyrus said. “I suppose this afternoon we'll look into your missing persons problem? And then my missing book problem.”

“This afternoon?” the woman laughed. “I nearly forgot how persistent you get when you have a problem to solve. When you found that Tremburgh manuscript? You barely slept for weeks until you felt you had deciphered all its secrets.”

Cyrus smiled, remembering. “And I knew I could look forward to Odette with coffee the mornings after I fell asleep on my parchment.”

“With ink all over your face,” Odette grinned. Cyrus had poured the wine, and he handed her a glass. They clinked them together, then simultaneously each took a measured sip. Therion had a profile view of the scene-- it looked almost rehearsed.

“Why did we ever break up?” Cyrus asked, smiling. “We were together for what, four years?”

“Try a year and a half,” Odette laughed. 

“No,” Cyrus pondered. “Truly?”

“That's all,” Odette said. “Didn't even make it to two holiday fetes.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Why ever did we end it?”

Odette stood, smoothing out her dress. “You got bored of me.”

“No, I could never!” Cyrus said.

“You did indeed,” Odette said. “I didn't take it personally. You're simply--intellectually speaking--in a league all your own. I couldn't stimulate your genius as well as I could stimulate… the rest of you.” Smiling, Odette slid herself down across Cyrus' lap. He laughed, and in the closet, Therion bit his lip. Odette leaned in and planted a long, luxurious kiss on Cyrus’ mouth.

When they parted, Cyrus was shaking his head at her. “Odette, we can't.”

“Why, are you seeing someone?” She tangled her fingers in the stray locks framing Cyrus' face. “I'm not.”

Cyrus seemed to consider for a bit. “I suppose not. But after all this time?”

“You no longer find me attractive?”

Cyrus smiled, shaking his head. “Odette, you still are, and have always been, simply stunning.”

“Then why not?” she asked, and their lips came together again. This time, Cyrus’ hands wrapped around her body, one at her shoulders and the other curling around her rear. Therion watched, feeling envious bile rising within him, as that hand squeezed the roundness beneath it.

Odette pulled away, brushing hair back from her face. Cyrus was looking at her with a wistful expression that set Therion's teeth on edge.

“I thought we might stay in tonight,” she said. “Mysteries can wait until the morning.” Odette untied her cloak, and started unhooking the fastenings of her dress.

“Well, that does depend on the nature of the mystery,” Cyrus said. Odette stood to shake her dress down to the floor, straddling Cyrus in her underclothes. She started pulling at the closures on his cloak and vest, pressing her lips into his neck.

“You're right, mysteries can wait,” he said, and started to help her with his clothes.

Therion felt disconnected, like he was sitting in that audience of a play, instead of lurking in a stranger's closet watching two people undress each other. It was surreal, but he couldn't look away. He watched Odette trace her hands over Cyrus’ bare chest with their lips locked together, and he stewed with envy. If that could be _him_ straddling Cyrus’ lap, _his_ nipple under Cyrus' tongue…

Therion squeezed his eyes shut. Why was he so jealous? Hadn't it been he who had told Cyrus to leave in the first place? Was the ruby still planting desires in his mind? And wasn't the very fact that Cyrus was with a woman right now evidence that he wouldn't have a chance, anyway?

His eyes reopened, slowly, letting the scene he was watching filter back into view. He focused on Cyrus’ face: eyes shut, lips slightly parted, his chin tilted back. He saw the breathy change in the scholar's features when Odette reached between their legs, though the curve of her thigh hid her hand and the length she touched. Therion wasn't surprised that he was hard himself. As he watched Odette slide herself onto Cyrus’ cock, Therion's hand found his own.

He heard Cyrus’ voice murmur something, but he couldn't make it out. Therion imagined the words were for him. A spike of desire struck him, and his hand tightened as it moved. Odette smiled at whatever the words really were as she rolled her hips, her golden locks swaying as she rode Cyrus. 

Envy and desire swirled through Therion's mind, competing for his attention. He watched Cyrus' hands as they moved over Odette’s skin, deliberate and delicate. He watched their bodies move in a familiar rhythm, former lovers who knew exactly how to please the other. Therion felt a twisting in his stomach, realizing he had never known that familiarity before with someone. He wanted so much of what they had… of what she had.

Odette slid off of Cyrus, turning on the couch and lifting her ass into the air so that Cyrus could take her from behind. The added bonus of this, at least for Therion in the closet, was that her head was now hidden by the arm of the couch, and Cyrus was facing him. He watched, mesmerized, as the scholar held her hips and thrust into her. His own hand worked himself in the rhythm of Cyrus' movements, as he watched the gyrations of the scholar's abs and his chest rise with panting breaths. Odette’s moans were barely stifled by the couch cushion. Therion bit his lip as he felt himself creep closer to release.

Suddenly, Cyrus’ eyes, which had been closed, opened. Therion could have sworn Cyrus was looking right at him. He was fairly certain that the scholar couldn't see anything behind the slats and the shadows of the closet, but couldn't shake the feeling that Cyrus was meeting his eyes. He stared back through the gaps in the door, watching him thrust forward, and felt the surge of desire push him over the edge. He felt a gasp escape his throat, and panicked a bit, until he realized that the lovers on the couch wouldn't be able to hear him over Odette's feline moans as she reached her own climax.

Therion watched with hazy contentment as Odette sank, spent, further into the couch, and Cyrus slid out of her. Therion watched the scholar spill his come across the curve of Odette's rear. Cyrus sank backwards with a heavy breath.

Odette sank into the other end of the couch and sighed. “I missed you, Cyrus Albright.”

Cyrus smiled. “I shouldn't have waited to lose my position before coming out to visit.”

“You should have.” Odette reached for her clothes, and started dressing. “I have so many memories of us,” she mused. “I used to get so worried about things, so insistent you never finished inside me.”

“I remember,” Cyrus said. “Though I don't think it would have mattered. The chances of you conceiving at your age--” 

Cyrus must have realized what he said as soon as the words were out of his mouth, as he stopped, frozen in mid speech.

“I now remember exactly why we broke up,” Odette said.

“Odette, my apologies, I didn't mean to infer--”

“Save it, Cyrus,” she shook her head. “You've already ruined the moment.”

“One thing I've always excelled at,” Cyrus sighed. 

“Go… go solve a mystery, or something.” Odette said, waving her hand at him.

“Of course,” he said, pulling on his clothes. Odette poured herself another glass of wine.

Cyrus fastened his cloak, and turned towards the door.

“Cy?” Odette called. He turned. “Careful out there. People have been disappearing.”

“I'll be fine,” he said. 

\--- --- ---

Therion watched Odette sip her wine on her couch. He had to wait for her to leave--or at least go to the other room--before her could slip out the door. She was taking forever. She reached for a book off of a nearby table, and Therion almost groaned. He feared he had actually made a noise when she got up, stretching. Then she started towards his closest.

_No, no, no…_ he thought, tensing, preparing to push past her and run. Odette stopped outside the closet door, as if she were reconsidering where she was about to go. Therion relaxed. Odette reached for the closet door.

When she swung back the door and saw a strange man crouched between her cloaks, she screamed. This was a perfectly reasonable reaction, and the one Therion expected. He took the moment of her surprise to leap to his feet, and push past her. He sprinted towards the door.

“Ice! Splinter and shard!” Odette shouted. 

Therion felt the spell hit him in the back. A burst of sheer cold, chilling him to his very core. He stumbled at the impact, but was able to recover into a roll towards the door. His back and shoulders were numb and unresponsive, but he managed to barge out the door and into the street. He kept running, leaving Odette standing in her doorway, equal parts angry and confused.


	8. The Sewers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrus has a bad day, gets a headache.

Therion emerged from the shadows on a side street near the marketplace. He didn't think Odette was trying to follow him, but the last thing he needed was some harpy chasing him through town screaming accusations at him, no matter how true they might be. His back still tingled from the impact of her ice spell. He felt like he was in the clear, but he pulled his scarf up over his nose anyway. There seemed to be some kind of commotion in the marketplace. Therion wandered over.

The crowd was watching a confrontation between a skinny merchant kid and an overly armored meathead. Therion recognized the skinny merchant kid as the one who had been hawking gemstones earlier. Apparently, Armored Meathead--and that fat nobleman standing nearby--didn't much appreciate Skinny Merchant Kid doing business in his town, and was issuing threats. Merchant Kid was giving it back at him.

“I'm stronger than I look,” Merchant Kid yelled. “I'm well versed in all the martial arts!”

Meathead rushed him, striking a blow to the kid's head with the flat side of his axe. Merchant Kid crumpled, and Therion heard a cry of alarm nearby--he turned and saw the other merchant, the weird girl who had called him a thief earlier.

Fat Nobleman collected up the remains of Merchant Kid's gemstones.

“You can't just take those!” the girl shouted. “They don't belong to you!”

“Everything in this town belongs to me,” Fat Nobleman sneered, “including the people in it.”

Armored Meathead grabbed the unconscious Merchant Kid, and started hauling him off.

“I'll show you!” the girl cried, and rushed towards Armored Meathead. Neither he nor his employer paid her any mind. Her path led her right past Therion. He knew he shouldn't get involved, but he couldn't help himself. He grabbed her arm as she ran past, and she jerked to a stop.

Wheeling around, she screamed at him. “Let me go, dirty thief!”

“You want that guy to smack the crap out of you, too?” Therion said, holding fast to her arm. “You won't win.”

There were tears in the girl's eyes, so he let go. She watched her friend get dragged away, clenching her hands into fists.

“No one asked for help from you, thief,” she said, treating the last word like a curse.

“Wow, okay,” Therion shook his head. “Sorry that I didn't want to see a little girl get beaten up in the middle of the street.”

“I’m EIGHTEEN,” the girl said angrily. “Stay out of my business, okay? Go find your scholar friend in the sewers.”

“Wait, what?”

“The guy in the black and gold cape? Obviously a scholar? Came through here asking people about disappearances and the sewers and everything?” She said all this as if Therion were an idiot. “He's the friend you were looking for before, right?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Merchants see everything,” she scoffed. “Including right through dirty sneak thieves.”

“Hostile, for no reason,” Therion muttered.

“Yeah, well, I'm just getting started! No way am I going to let that Morlock get away with what he did to Ali!”

“The skinny kid? Aren't you guys like, rivals?”

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn't expect a thief to understand. That guy's gonna regret the day he messed with Tressa Colzione!”

“I assume that's you?”

Tressa huffed, and started off towards the Nobleman's manor outside of town. Therion shook his head, and started hunting around for the entrance to these sewers.

\--- --- ---

Cyrus wandered the sewers, one hand plugging his nose, the other shining a lantern into the damp shadows of the underground caverns. He hadn't found much besides rats, salamanders, and foul smells. Instead, his thoughts wandered to Odette.

Seeing her had brought back the good memories, for sure, but the longer he thought, the more problems he remembered. She was very demanding of attention, usually when he was in the middle of some fascinating study, and she didn't seem to understand or appreciate having to wait. She was smart, but sometimes took a while to fully understand new concepts, so he had often felt more like a teacher than a peer--which he didn't mind, but she had resented. Her strength as a scholar lay in her attention to detail and her meticulousness, not necessarily her intelligence or curiosity. Plus, as had just happened, she often took offense at some of the things he said without thinking. This was his fault for saying them, sure, but would it kill her to be a little less quick to anger over what was clearly not his intent?

He turned a corner, and an ominous red light shone within a stone doorway. Interest piqued, he crept closer, listening for sounds but hearing only his own footsteps. _This better not be some kind of necromantic demon summoning tomfoolery,_ he thought, turning into the stone chamber. He saw the glowing red pentagram on the floor.

_Damnit._

His eyes took in the room quickly. Strange restraining devices and medical instruments, odd crystals with a sickening red hue, and a cell in the corner that seemed to be heaped with...

“By the flame, this took a sharp turn,” Cyrus muttered, trying not to look at the pile in the corner of the room. “I seem to have located those missing persons, however.” He walked further into the chamber, carefully stepping over the lines of the pentagram. He stooped to examine the red crystals. “These don't look particularly friendly, either.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Cyrus sprang up. There was no other way out of the chamber save the way he had entered, the way the footsteps were approaching. There wasn't much of a place to hide, either, unless he wanted to pretend to be a corpse. Before he could weigh his revulsion against the potential danger of whoever was approaching, two figures appeared in the doorway, one with an unconscious body slung over its beefy shoulder.

“Who goes there?” the smaller figure called out. “Omar, seize him!”

The larger man dropped the body unceremoniously to the floor, as Cyrus assumed a fighting stance.

“Oh, flames! Rage strong!”

“Lightning, strike true!” the smaller, hooded figure called at the same time. 

The elemental spells collided, leaving a burst of fire and lightning that blinded everyone momentarily, except for the big man charging towards Cyrus. Omar crashed into him, pinning him to the wall.

“I wouldn't try that again, unless you want Omar to crush your ribs,” the hooded man brushed cinders off his cloak. “And I--” he paused, studying Cyrus. “Professor?”

“Do I know you?” Cyrus asked, peering around Omar's shoulder. “You look terribly familiar.”

“Gideon,” the hooded man said. “I… uh… took your class. About three years ago.”

“I knew it!” Cyrus said. “You were the one with all the questions about the Ventus Kings and their history with dark magic!” He glanced at the pentagram. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Omar, tie him up.”

“I don't work for you,” the big man grunted. “I was only to deliver the boy to make sure he disappears.” He glanced at the unconcious body of Ali, sprawled on the floor.

“You think Morlock would want this guy running around blabbing his mouth about what's going on under his city?” Gideon said, tiredly.

“I don't need to tell anyone,” Cyrus said. “I can be extraordinarily reticent when necessary.”

“Nice try, Professor,” Gideon said, and motioned for Omar to secure him by wrists and ankles to the wall.

“Your papers were trite and uninspired,” Cyrus said, struggling against Omar to no avail.

Soon, both he and Ali were bound in the restraints. Ali's head drooped, while Cyrus stared Gideon down fiercely. Omar asked his leave and trudged off, happy to be done with his tasks. Gideon checked the locks on both of his prisoners.

“So you've just been harvesting innocent people to make your twisted blood crystals?” Cyrus inquired. He knew he was talking to suppress the fear of what might be happening next. “And Morlock's supplying the people?”

Gideon shrugged. “More cost effective than running a prison. Sort of like recycling?”

“I'm immensely disappointed in you,” Cyrus said.

Gideon looked at him, confused.

“You've clearly amassed a sizable amount of information and practices of the dark arts, and here you are using it for murder and the profit of whom? Morlock?”

Gideon shook his head. “I don't work for him.”

“Then who?”

“Why should I tell you, Professor?” Gideon shuffled over to a table, and paged through a thick volume.

“You're planning to drain my blood into your damned crystals anyway, you may as well answer me.”

“Oh, no, Professor,” Gideon said. “You're not going to be a crystal. You're going to be my assistant.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “I think I'd prefer to be a crystal.”

“Well, that's not your decision to make.” Gideon stopped on a particular page of his book. “Demand is increasing for a perfect crystal. I could make use of someone with heightened intellect. And, well, I've been waiting for an opportunity to try this spell.”

Cyrus’ brow furrowed. “What spell?”

Gideon grinned. “Mind control.”

Cyrus' frown deepened. “Inconceivable.”

“I guess we'll see?” Gideon said. “But I'm going to try it on the boy, first. Wouldn't want to fry your esteemed brain messing up my first try on this spell, now would I?”

Cyrus blanched. He hadn't been afraid of death, or pain of torture, but the idea of someone else controlling his most treasured possession-- his intellect-- shook him to the core. 

Gideon was searching through his shelves and drawers, and stepped back when he had found a sort of circlet with two pointed thorns arcing down from each side. One of the blood red gemstones was set into the center.

“I told you I wanted to do this one. I've even prepared this apparatus.”

Cyrus watched, his thoughts swirling, but he focused his attention away from them, keeping his mind from engaging the fear. The instant he let the emotion in, he knew, he had lost. He had extensive practice in subduing his irrational side.

Gideon settled the circlet on Ali's forehead, the two thorns making contact at his temples. The merchant was just coming to, and was squirming a bit against the restraints. 

“Wha… what's happening?” Ali murmured. “Who are you? Where's Tressa?”

“Shhh,” Gideon soothed him. “Everything will be fine.”

Cyrus had a sickening feeling that this was the same way Gideon had spoken to his previous victims.

“Why am I tied up?! What's going on?!” Ali was starting to panic. Wide-eyed, he looked to Cyrus. “Help me!”

“Relax,” Gideon said. “You won't be hurt. I think.” He stepped back as Ali thrashed in his restraints. The circlet stayed in place. Gideon took up his book from the table, and started murmuring the incantation: ten syllables in an ancient language Cyrus recognized, but couldn't name. Ali kept struggling, but by Gideon's fifth repetition, his movements slowed. Encouraged, Gideon repeated the spell louder, with more enthusiasm. The red gem on the circlet glowed eerily, as Ali's eyes rolled back, leaving empty whiteness as his muscles relaxed completely. Cyrus watched in awe as the merchant's body sagged in the restraints. Gideon repeated the incantation once more, all Cyrus needed to hear in order to commit it to memory. 

Gideon closed the book, and held it against his chest. He waved a hand in front of Ali's unresponsive face. There was no response. Gideon slapped Ali's cheek, lightly. Nothing. He slapped it again, sharply. Still nothing. Gideon smiled.

“Unbelievable,” Cyrus muttered, dread growing within him.

“State your name and your occupation,” Gideon ordered, trying out his new power.

“A...Ali,” he said, his voice low, coming from deep within his throat. “I'm a merchant.”

Gideon nodded. “Good, good. State your biggest fear.”

“Disappointing my father,” Ali said, “and spiders.”

Gideon considered. “Meow like a cat.”

Immediately, Ali started mewing like a kitten.

“Now cluck like a chicken.”

Mid meow, Ali switched to chicken clucks.

Gideon laughed, and set the tome on the table at his side. “That's enough,” he said, and started unlocking the restraints binding Ali to the wall. The merchant fell to his hands and knees after he was unlocked.

“Stand,” Gideon ordered, and Ali obeyed. Tentatively, Gideon peeled the circlet from the merchant's brow. He watched Ali carefully as the metal thorns pulled away from his temples. Ali didn't react.

“You are still under my control?” Gideon asked.

“Yes, Master,” Ali intoned.

Gideon grinned at Cyrus, whose face had drained almost completely. “Perfect.”

\--- --- ---

Therion trudged through the sewers, having tightened his scarf over his nose to keep out the stench. The tunnels and channels were a maze, and he almost felt like giving up, heading to the tavern, and hoping to run into Cyrus the next morning. Something told him to keep searching, however. Maybe it was something in that scholar woman's tone when she warned Cyrus to be careful that unsettled him. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't want to hang out in town where she and that crazy-eyed merchant girl could see him. Maybe it was that he desperately wanted to see Cyrus, to apologize--or at least come as close to an apology as he ever got.

He heard movement from around a nearby stone wall, and he froze in order to better listen. Then he snuck towards the source of the noise, his heart lightening. Although he told himself that it was probably just a giant rat, he turned the corner, Cyrus’ name on his lips. That wasn't who he saw there, however.

“Professor?” the girl asked, whirling so quickly her lavender skirts twirled around her. It was the same girl Therion had seen peering into the scholar's house. “Oh. You again. Are you following me?”

Therion shook his head. “Who are you?” He glanced around the dank tunnel. “What are you doing down here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the girl said haughtily. “I'm searching for someone… important to me. The merchant girl said he was down here, but I've been in this disgusting hole for way too long and I'm tired and hungry and I want to go home.”

Therion looked at her, and the pieces clicked into place. “You're that girl who's obsessed with him! His stalker!”

“Excuse me, his what?”

Suddenly, there came an echoing crash from the distance, and an oddly melodious scream. Therion and Therese both jumped at the commotion, then looked at each other.

“Do you think that's him?” she asked.

Therion touched the hilt of his dagger, making sure it was still there. “I don't know. I don't know if I want to know.”

Therese started running in the direction of the noise. Therion chased after her.

\--- --- ---

Cyrus’ body sank against the restraints as breathed heavily, his nerves still twitching from the lightning spell that had hit him full force. He had cast it at Gideon, but the dark scholar was too quick with a reflection spell that Cyrus hadn't anticipated. 

“And here I thought you were said to be a genius, Professor,” Gideon sneered. “You should probably have figured out that you're beaten.” He stepped forward, settling the circlet on Cyrus’ forehead. “From that scream, it sounded like it hurt.”

Cyrus glared up at him, still trying to control his breathing.

“You're going to like working for me,” Gideon said, then he laughed. “Because I'm going to tell you to like it.” His voice dropped a half octave as he began the incantation again. 

Cyrus felt the metal of the circlet grow warm against his skin. A certain mental murkiness, like a drunken buzz or a dizzy sleeplessness, started to seep into the corners of his mind. It was starting. He was losing himself. 

Cyrus knew what he needed to do. Close off his mind, separate it into two different parts: the logical, and the emotional. The rational and irrational. The part he prized and understood, and the part he distrusted and feared. He had shut it out before, many times. As he drew up that mental barrier, he felt the haziness recede. He felt Gideon's spell release its hold on him. He smiled. He would beat this. He searched through the recesses of logical memory to find thoughts to drown out the sound of the spell, and settled on a paper he had published three months ago, and busied himself with recalling it to the minutest detail. He settled in to the comfort of familiar, logical argument. He barely noticed when Gideon's voice faded out.

“You're not mind controlled, are you?” Gideon said. Cyrus didn't open his eyes. Gideon slapped him, just as he had done for Ali.

“Ow,” Cyrus said, confident in his besting of the spell. “Oh, you're still here? Seems your spell has failed. You should have studied harder.”

Gideon smirked, nonplussed. “The book did warn that resistance was possible, and listed several ways to decrease mental acuity.”

Cyrus’ smugness wavered.

“One option is alcohol, but I don't have nearly enough coin to waste getting you drunk.”

“Fair,” Cyrus said.

“Another is pain. The mind is very pliable under intense physical discomfort.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes at the dark scholar.

“But I'm not much for torture, so you don't have to worry about that.”

“There is a literal pile of corpses in the corner of the room.”

“Yes, but I didn't torture anyone,” Gideon shrugged. “Blood loss just makes a person pass out. I'm not a monster.”

“Again, I feel obliged to reference the corner of death six yards from where you stand.”

Gideon waved a hand. “We'll go with option three for weakening your resolve.”

“Which is?”

“Pleasure.” Gideon stepped forward, and started undoing the closure of Cyrus' belt.

“Pardon, what now?”

“Oh, I'm not going to do it,” Gideon said, sliding Cyrus’ trousers down to his bound ankles. He turned to Ali, who had been standing expressionless near where he had been released from his bindings. “You there.”

“Yes, Master,” Ali intoned.

Gideon motioned to the bound, half-naked Cyrus. “Suck his cock.”

\--- --- ---

Therese had stopped, pressing her clasped hands over her chest. She was staring straight ahead. Therion slowed as he caught up with her. She pressed a finger over her lips.

“I think…” she whispered. “I think he's in there.” 

Therion followed her pointed finger to a darkened archway. “Then why are we waiting?” Therion charged forward, unsheathing his dagger from his hip.

“Wait, but--”

_Cyrus clung to the scraps of rationality that slugged through his swirling mind. It was a mental maelstrom, and he swam to the shards of sanity as they whirled past._

Therion spun around the corner, ready to yell something disarming and witty, but the words died in his throat. He tried to make sense of the sight in front of him. There was a glowing demonic circle, an unnervingly pale man in a black robe chanting in some foreign language, a half-naked Cyrus strapped to the wall, and the skinny merchant kid on his knees, sucking him off enthusiastically.

“What in the actual fuck is going on here?” 

“Oh. My. GODS!” Therese squealed, appearing beside him. “I totally had a dream just like this!”

Gideon whirled around, but Therion charged, dagger drawn. 

_The thunder of the spell quieted, but the wind of the pulsing pleasure and lightning heat of the gemstone surged, threatening to pull him under. He had to fight it. If he let it drown him, he would lose everything._

The dark scholar snarled, and voiced something that was surely the beginning of a spell. Therion feinted, tensing to be hit with the magical energy. Before Gideon could finish his spell, a ceramic jar crashed against his forehead. Therese was standing by Gideon's work table, brandishing small objects to hurl at him.

“Don't let him finish a spell!” Therion called, and charged at Gideon again. The dark scholar squeaked and ran, but not before Therion swiped at his arm. The dagger tore through the cloth, drawing blood.

_Cyrus felt himself sinking despite his efforts. The scraps of thought under his control were shrinking, sinking, dissolving. All the while the tempest of sensation pulled at him, surging. He felt the pressure building. He would be forever lost at sea._

Gideon dodged the vial Therese hurled at him, snatching up his sickle from the hook on the wall. Growling, he lunged for Therion. The thief dodged, slicing at the dark scholar. A notebook hit Therion in the face.

“Hey, watch your aim!” Therion yelled, and in the instant he looked at Therese, Gideon elbowed him in the chin, knocking him backwards. His dagger slipped from his hand, clattering across the stone floor. Gideon loomed over him, sickle poised.

“I'm set on assistants, so I suppose it's your blood I'll be having,” the dark scholar said.

_Flashes burst through the lightning. The waves rolled over him, but he saw the faint outlines of faces. Therese. Was she here? Was she diving into the waves? And across the swirling waters… was that... who was that?_

“Ther… Therion…” the whisper just barely escaped Cyrus’ lips.

Therese screamed and ran towards Gideon. He yelled and lunged for her, and she stopped short. Therion raised a leg and kicked Gideon square in the chest, sending him crashing backwards into the wall.

_Cyrus gasped for air. He would fight it. He could resist it. He could keep it from dragging him down. He could push the building pleasure waves from his mind, he could withstand the burning heat, he could steady his pulsing heart. He had to._

Cyrus’ voice was low and toneless as he started Gideon's mind control spell. It was the last scrap of rational thought he could find, and he latched on to it. 

The others in the room didn't hear him. Therion dove for his weapon, while Therese retreated to the far corner of the room. Gideon was on his feet, swiping his sickle at Therese. Therion had the dagger in hand, and was running towards Gideon, when a body came flying at the dark scholar, pinning him to the ground. Ali was on top of him, fists flying, punches landing on Gideon's face.

“Stop! Stop! I command you!” Gideon choked out around the pummel of the merchant's knuckles.

Cyrus’ eyes were closed, but his lips moving in an unbroken, chanted spell. Ali was unceasing. Gideon's voice gurgled as blood filled his mouth.

Therion was on his feet. “Cyrus!” He watched Ali's fists slam into Gideon's face in time to Cyrus’ murmured syllables. Therion rushed over to him, reaching to take his head in hands, but hesitating. He pulled the circlet from Cyrus’ forehead instead. Wincing from the heat of the burning metal, he dropped it.

_The water rushed away in a torrent. The storm dissolved, leaving warm sunshine in its wake._

Cyrus opened his eyes, blinking them back into focus. “Therion?”

Therion bit his lip to suppress the smile. He pulled his bent pin from his pocket, jamming it in the lock at Cyrus’ wrist.

“Here,” Therese said, handing him a key pilfered from the table. Therion snatched it, glancing quickly behind him. The soft squelch of fist against face had stopped. Ali was still sitting on the immobile Gideon. Therion freed Cyrus from the shackles quickly. Cyrus fell forward, unable to summon the strength. Therion held him upright as he passed the key to Therese.

“Therion,” Cyrus breathed, his face falling to the thief's chest. “I'm glad to see you again.”

Therion tried to calm the flutter in his heart at these words. Instead, he forced some strength into his voice. “Can you stand? What did he do to you?”

“I'm fine,” Cyrus said, his voice betraying him. He stumbled as he tried to shift his weight onto his own feet. “I do believe my legs have fallen asleep. And I have this gods-awful migraine…” he noticed Therese for the first time. “Therese, you should be in class.”

“Professor, are you okay?” she said, her eyes wet with worry. 

“Fine, I--” Cyrus pressed a hand to his forehead. “Where are my pants?”

Therion glanced at Ali, who was still staring into the unconscious mess that used to be Gideon's face. “Should we… should we do something about that?”

“The book,” Cyrus said, unable to look in the direction of the lantern light for long. “There should be a reversal spell.”

Therion snatched up the tome.

“Give it to me,” Therese said. 

Therion pulled it away from her. “I can read,” he said. Then he glanced at the runes on the page.

“It's Hornburgian,” Cyrus said. “Let Therese do it.”

With only a few stumbles, Therese read the incantation. Ali's muscles trembled, before he blinked understanding back into his eyes.

“Where am I? Who the heck are you guys?” He looked at Gideon, then at his bloodied knuckles. “Oh gods, what did I do?”

“Relax,” Therion said. “We’re not the bad guys. Comparatively.” He clapped Ali on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you're a hero.”

“What's the last thing you remember?” Cyrus asked, taking the book from Therese.

“That fat asshole sicking his guard on me. Beat the shit out of me, and then was dragging me back to his… his house, I guess. Are we in a sewer?”

“You remember nothing after that?” Cyrus pried, the book tucked safely under his arm.

“There was a guy in a hood? Talking about… spells?” he looked at Cyrus. “Were you there?”

“It's best if you don’t try too hard,” Cyrus said. “Let’s just return to the surface.”

Therion nodded. “Yeah, your snarky little friend with the hat is looking for you.”

Ali frowned. “Tressa?”

“Man, I don’t remember her name. Little bratty merchant kid.”

“Yeah, that's probably Tressa.”

\--- --- ---

They regrouped at Odette's, sending the city watch down to investigate what remained of Gideon and his crimes. Ali ran off, mumbling something about Tressa. When they were settled in Odette's front room, she eyed Therion suspiciously. She was not convinced by Cyrus' assurances as he sank onto the couch, draping a damp cloth over his eyes.

“He broke into my house,” Odette accused.

“I was looking for you,” Therion explained to Cyrus. “I didn't…” he remembered the ore sample in one of his many pockets, retrieved it, and set it on Odette's coffee table. “I didn't even steal anything.” 

Odette frowned. “What kind of company are you keeping these days, Cy?”

“He just saved me from having my mind possessed by a madman, Odette,” Cyrus said, cloth still over his eyes. “Some gratuity is in order.”

“Fine. And what about you, young lady?” she turned to Therese.

Cyrus sat up, removing the cloth and focusing on his former student. “Therese, you need to go back to Atlasdam.” There was a firm authority in his voice that Therion found himself oddly attracted to.

Therese, perched on the armrest of the sofa, shook her head defiantly. “I'm coming with you.”

“You will do no such thing,” Cyrus said.

“Aren't your parents worried about you?” Odette asked.

“My mother probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone,” Therese said. 

“What about your father?” Odette tried.

“He left when I was a baby. I don't have a father,” she said, snarkily.

“That explains a lot,” Odette said, rolling her eyes.

“Still,” Cyrus said, refocusing her attention, “you have your studies to attend to.”

“But the substitute they chose for your class is awful. She's so boring,” Therese whined.

Cyrus shook his head. “Regardless, I expect you to still achieve high marks. I know what you're capable of, and I expect you not to disappoint me.”

Therese pouted, but there was no arguing with Cyrus' teacher voice.

“Now, how do we make sure you return there safely?” he pondered. “Atlasdam is a bit out of the way if I'm headed to Stoneguard.” 

“Why Stoneguard?” Odette asked.

“Book binderies,” he said, as if it were obvious. He looked at Therion. “Where is your next destination?”

“Wellspring,” the thief said.

Cyrus shook his head. “Wrong direction.”

“I'll look after her,” Odette volunteered, ignoring the face Therese made when she said it.

“Are you certain?” Cyrus asked.

“Not a problem,” Odette said. “You two get on with your travels.” She eyed Therion. “Just stop lurking in closets.”

“There we are,” Cyrus said. He massaged his temples. “But after a night's worth of sleep.”


	9. Sunshade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primrose gets some love, and some loss.

After a pleasant journey through the Riverlands, the heat in the Sunlands came down hard and angry. They had determined to make it through the desert as quickly as possible, but the shifting sands and arid heat slowed them down. Therion stripped off his scarf and tunic, making his way over the sands in just his undershirt, while Cyrus carried his cloak and vest and sweated through his shirt. 

After pulling off his tunic, Therion had noticed Cyrus looking at him oddly. “What?”

“That's an interesting necklace,” the scholar said.

Therion reddened, his hand finding the collar Cordelia had put on him. “Yeah,” he said. “Let's just keep going. I don't really want to camp out here. Snakes and scorpions and all kinds of nasty things.”

“I concur.”

They reached Sunshade near sundown, just as the town was coming to life. 

“I need a drink,” Therion said. They made their way to the center of town, to the grandiose tavern in the pleasure district. They settled at a table, ordered their drinks, and barely had time to start relaxing from the long journey before the entertainment was scheduled to begin.

Stagehands were dimming the lights, leaving only the stage lights burning bright. Beside the stage, a small quartet was settling back into their seats, picking up their instruments. A brunette dancer in crimson garb swept onto the stage, poised to begin her routine.

“I didn't know they had a show, here.” Cyrus said, sitting forward. 

“They do a lot more than just put on a show, if you have coin,” Therion said. 

Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him, and Therion gave a nod, sipping his ale. The scholar turned his eyes back to the stage, where the music began, cueing the dancer to start her twirls and turns.

“I've always envied people who could move so gracefully,” Cyrus said, watching the girl on stage.

“Really?” Therion smirked.

“I've always been terrible at it,” Cyrus said. “Two left feet. But she's got some talent,” he said, nodding towards the stage. 

Therion watched. It looked as if the dancer were floating on air, weightless. 

“I suppose she does,” he said.

They watched in silence for a while, entranced by the dancer. She finished, sweeping down for a bow. The tavern erupted in applause and whistles. Cyrus rose to his feet, clapping exuberantly. “Bravo! Well done!”

“Sit down, you're embarrassing yourself,” Therion said, tugging on his sleeve.

“Give it up for the lovely Primrose!” the band leader called, and the dancer blew kisses out into the crowd before gliding off stage. “Next up, she's sassy, she's sweet, she's Yusufa!”

\--- --- ---

A few hours later, Primrose was shaking. She paced the length of the dancers’ dormitory, trying to work out her jittery, nervous energy. _I saw it, I swear I saw it. There, on his left arm… the mark of the crow. How long have I waited for this day? And now I know what I have to do._

The door opened, and another dancer, clad in blue, swept into the room.

“Prim!” Yusufa said, rushing over. “Where did you go? I was worried!”

“Sufa,” the dancer said, embracing her distractedly. “I just… I just needed to clear my head.”

Yusufa kept her hands locked around Primrose's hips, looking up at her. “I've never seen you so agitated. Tell me what's wrong.”

“Yusufa…” Primrose turned to face the other dancer. She rested her hands on Yusufa's arms above her elbows, and spoke in a whisper. “I need to leave.”

“What?” Yusufa breathed. She brought her face close, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I know,” Primrose whispered. “I'm sorry. But it's important. Probably the most important thing in my life.”

Yusufa was silent for a time, but she heard the resolve in the other dancer's voice. “I'll come with you.”

“No, it's too dangerous.” She shook her head, shaking Yusufa's with it. “You know what will happen if the Master catches us trying to leave town.”

“I don't care.”

“I can't put you in that kind of danger. You're too precious to me.”

“And I'd rather be dead than live without you,” Yusufa said. Softly, she pressed her lips against Primrose's. Prim let the kiss linger, before she pulled away.

“Sufa, I…” she pushed a strand of hair back from Yusufa's brow.

“You don't have to ask me,” she said, wrapping her arms around Prim. “I will help you. Tell me what I can do.”

Primrose glanced sideways at the door of the dormitory. It was shut and locked, and the room was empty except for the two of them. This was prime earning hour for the dancers, and none wanted to face Helgenish’s wrath for not making enough.

“Okay,” she said, leaning in to whisper directly in Yusufa's ear. “I thought we could escape through the catacombs. Then we'll be out in the desert, and we'll make our way to Cobblestone or Clearbrook or wherever. But I eventually need to go up to Stillsnow.”

“Stillsnow?” Yusufa squeaked. “That's so far!”

Primrose clapped a hand over the other dancer's mouth. “Shh! Not a word!”

“I'm sorry,” Yusufa breathed when Primrose removed her hand. “What's… why there?”

Primrose shook her head. “I… I can't…”

“It's okay,” Yusufa said, silencing Primrose with a sweet kiss. “You don't need to tell me yet. When you're ready.”

Primrose smiled, but it was a nervous smile. “But the streets are too busy right now. We'll have to wait until the taverns close, but before sunup, so we won't be seen.”

“It's always darkest before the dawn,” Yusufa said.

“Exactly,” Primrose said. She realized her fingers were still shaking, squeezing into Yusufa's arm. The other dancer looked down her shoulder, and placed her own hand over one of Primrose's.

“It's okay,” Yusufa said, taking Primrose's hand, kissing her fingertips. “We always said we would do this.”

“Someday,” Primrose said.

“Today is someday,” Yusufa said.

Primrose smiled, and leaned in to kiss the other dancer, a lingering, thankful kiss. Yusufa's hands traced up Primrose's arms, around her shoulders, down the curve of her chest, around to the back of her hips. She pulled their bodies together.

“We have some time to wait for the taverns to close,” Yusufa said. “Let me settle your nerves.”

“Sufa, you're too good for me,” Primrose said.

Yusufa just smiled, and slipped the straps of her top off of her shoulders. She pulled it down over the curve of her breasts. Primrose's hands found the familiar curves, her fingers brushing over the hardened, tan nipples. Yusufa's kisses tingled Primrose's neck and collarbone as her fingers worked to undo the fastenings of Primrose's stage outfit. Her own paler, pinker breasts were more modest, but that had never dissuaded Yusufa's attentions. 

Soon, the two women had sunk into Yusufa's bed, their bare bodies entwined. Yusufa laid Primrose on her back, her touch comforting and massaging along the length of Primrose's stomach, hips, and thighs. She traced a trail of kisses down the space between Primrose’s breasts, along her taut stomach, around the curve of her hip, and into the valley between her thighs. Primrose purred, her fingers tanging in Yusufa's hair as the other dancer teased around her sensitive parts with her tongue and lips.

Yusufa pressed her fingers lightly against the warm, wet folds of Primrose's sex, making way for the caress of her mouth. Primrose’s moaned, in that throaty voice that thrilled Yusufa. She slid her fingers easily within Primrose, eager to please her lover inside as well as out.

Primrose buried her face in the pillow, muffling her moan. She knew that the Master’s men liked to lurk outside the door. Yusufa's tongue teased at her most sensitive parts, the other dancer's lips pressing at her expertly. Her fingers pressed from the inside, sliding gently but steadily in and out. Yusufa had learned, over the years the two dancers had sought comfort in each other, exactly how to bring Primrose to her starry-eyed climax. Yet she held back, teasing her pleasure level up and down, leaving Prim helpless to her motions.

Primrose felt the tingling desires build within her as she rolled her hips under Yusufa's attentions. She trailed her fingers over her stiffened nipples, down the length of her body. Her other hand found Yusufa's hair, caressing the curls. She murmured her lover's name into the pillow in a breathy sigh that begged for release of the storming pleasure within her.

Yusufa smiled, and sped up the motions of her hand, ready to bring Primrose over the edge. Her tongue moved more deliberately, tasting the sweetness of her lover's pleasure. Primrose curled her fingers in Yusufa's hair as her thighs tightened and her back arched. Her mouth opened in a silent cry of pleasure as the orgasm rocked through her. Yusufa didn't stop, knowing that she could keep Primrose riding the high. 

The waves of sensation rolled over Primrose, each one just as intense as the last, until she felt as if her nerves would burst. She pressed her arm over her mouth, stifling her moans. She pushed Yusufa's head away gently, and the other dancer smiled up at her devilishly. Primrose panted, trying to catch her breath, every fiber in her body still tingling. She smiled down at Yusufa.

“You're too good for me,” she breathed, and motioned with her exhausted muscles for Yusufa to lay next to her.

The two dancers lay entwined, their bare breasts pressed together, their arms wrapped around each other. Primrose closed her eyes, content, as she toyed with a lock of Yusufa's hair. _Why am I risking losing this?_ she thought. The image of the assassin's crow tattoo flashed through her mind. _I can't let him get away. I may never get another chance._ The haze of post-orgasmic peace vanished in an instant, and Primrose's lips hardened into a frown.

Yusufa kissed that frown, dreamily.

\--- --- ---

Therion and Cyrus stayed at the tavern until late in the evening, drinking and watching the dancers, listening to the band. In Cyrus' opinion, which he expressed often and loudly to Therion, none of the dancers had the same skill as the first that they saw. 

“Maybe that's because you're drunk and you can't see straight,” Therion teased.

“You, sir--” Cyrus said, sloshing, “you are the drunk… drunked.”

Therion burst out laughing, nearly falling out of his chair. Cyrus laughed at this in turn.

“We gotta go,” Therion said. “We've had too much, we gotta go.”

“You're in charge of leading us out of here, then,” Cyrus said, standing and then immediately collapsing against his chair. Therion fell into a fit of laughter again, hooking an arm around Cyrus.

“You drunk fool,” Therion said, and the two stumbled out of the tavern. 

Therion tried his best to hold the both of them up as they staggered through the street to the inn. He assumed he was more sober than Cyrus, mostly because he was able to make that very assessment, and because Cyrus was singing very loudly and rather poorly.

Therion shook his head. “Do you even know what being in tune means?”

Cyrus laughed, stumbled, and caught himself by embracing Therion's shoulders. “I have not been this inebriated…” he caught Therion's eyes, with a quick flash of that intensity that disarmed and enraptured the thief. Then it was gone, clouded by drink. “Since the last time I drank with you in Atlasdam. I am starting to think you a poor influence on me.”

Therion shook his head. “Except I'm the one getting you out of the tavern and into bed,” he said, then his drunken brain processed his words. “Your own bed,” he quickly added, but Cyrus didn't notice. 

He was marching off down the street, picking up his song again. He twirled around a corner, and his lyrics were quickly cut off, interrupted with a, “My most sincere apologies, miss!”

Therion turned the corner to see Cyrus offering his hand to the girl he had crashed into in his drunken obliviousness. Her friend grabbed her before the scholar could reach her.

“Let's go,” the one who hadn't fallen down whispered, and gave Therion a sharp look. He couldn't help but think she looked familiar. She had a dark cloak on, but her face was made up like a dancer's.

“Please accept my deepest apol--” Cyrus said, swaying. He caught himself. “You're that dancer!”

The dancer swung her dirty look from Therion to Cyrus. She softened her face into a smile. “Do yourself a favor, honey,” she whispered, “and forget you saw us.” She hooked her arm in her friend's, and the two swept down the darkened street.

Cyrus looked at Therion. “She was that dancer,” he said.

“That's great,” Therion said. “Let's get to the inn before we get ourselves in trouble.”

\--- --- ---

Primrose only let herself stop to catch her breath once they were in the dark seclusion of the catacombs. A few steps from the entrance, and they were in total darkness. Yusufa breathed at her side. Running into those two men, drunk as they were, had unnerved her. What if they talked to Helgenish or his men about seeing them? The one in the flashy cloak had recognized her. If he talked…

“Prim?” Yusufa whispered.

Primrose shook her head. If he talked, they were already in trouble for sneaking around, an not earning the Master his coin. And she might not get another chance if she turned back now. She swallowed her fears, and reached for Yusufa's hand.

“Faith will be our shield,” she whispered, both to herself and to Yusufa. 

“I'm with you,” Yusufa said.

They crept through the dark, keeping one hand on the wall beside them, stepping tentatively through the stone passageway. Primrose lost Yusufa's hand a few times, and each time her heart leapt into her chest before she found it again. She knew that if Yusufa hadn't been with her, she would have turned back long ago. 

In the distance, she could make out a faint light-- the end of the catacombs, illuminated by the moon and the approaching dawn. She gave Yusufa's hand an excited squeeze, and quickened her step.

_We've made it! The desert! We're free!_ Primrose's thoughts raced as she stepped out into the sands, losing hold of Yusufa's hand in the process. She whirled. “Sufa,” she whispered, and groped in the semi darkness for the other dancer “Sufa!” she hissed, louder, panicked.

“Primrose!” Yusufa's voice, tinged with fear, shattered any hope that had been building within her. Primrose whirled towards the sound of the voice, and saw her, gripped in the greasy arms of Helgenish.

“Thought you could sneak away from me, did you, kitten?” the Master sneered, his fat fingers closed around the knife he held to Yusufa's throat.

Primrose's heart sank to the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were wide as her head shook in disbelief, her mouth open. The only words she could form escaped her lips: “That drunk idiot talked.”

Helgenish laughed, a piggish squeal. “No one needed to tell me. I saw you little sneaks creep into the catacombs myself. And where is it that you think you might be going?”

Two of Helganish’s bodyguards emerged from the shadows, blocking off her escape route-- not that the sight of that blade at Yusufa's delicate throat hadn't already paralyzed her.

“Master… I…” Primrose stammered. She straightened, and put on a smile. She had sweet talked her way into Helgenish’s good graces before, but never had she crossed him like this.

“Spare your mewling,” Helgenish said. He tightened his grip on Yusufa's arm, and she whimpered. He cast a sideways eye at Yusufa's panicked face. “A worthless stray, this one. It seems I've been too lenient with you girls.”

“Master, let me explain--”

“I won't make that mistake again.” Helgenish said. With a messy swipe, he drew the blade against Yusufa's neck.

“No!” Primrose screamed. Helgenish shoved her forward, and Yusufa fell to the dusty ground, clutching her bleeding throat. Primrose rushed towards her, her eyes clouding.

Yusufa looked up at her, reached for her with one hand. Primrose knelt, her hands shaking as she reached for the other dancer. 

“Yusufa…” Primrose said, gently touching her face. She shook her head in disbelief.

“Prim…” Yusufa choked out, her voice a gurgle amidst the blood. “Prim… do you… love me?”

Primrose felt the heat well up behind her eyes. She bit her lower lip, the pain distracting her, keeping the tears from coming.

Yusufa's eyes searched Primrose's face. “Is what we had… real?”

“Sufa…”

“Please… Tell me… Prim… Do you love me?”

Primrose watched the struggle in Yusufa's face as she clung to life. There was too much blood. She knew what Yusufa needed to hear.

“Yes, Yusufa. I do.” 

“I'm so...happy.” Yusufa said, her voice fading. “Not… alone… anymore.” 

Primrose watched the light flicker from the other dancer's eyes. She stared, trying to feel something through the numbness overtaking her mind. She couldn't feel the love she had told Yusufa she felt, she couldn't feel the loss, she couldn't feel the guilt. She could only feel the anger. She swallowed hard, and turned her stony gaze up at Helgenish.

“Now, kitten,” Helgenish said. “You have a choice. You can come back home, and do your best to make it up to me, or I can leave you here with this worthless trash.” He motioned to Yusufa's body. “What do you say?”

Primrose summoned her strength. “Enough.” 

“Come again?”

“I have danced enough for you. I do not belong to you any longer.”

Helganish stepped forward, twirling his dagger in his fingers. “You forget yourself, little kitten. I know that it's been a long night for you, and you're tired, and not thinking clearly.” He had closed the distance between them, setting a fat hand on Primrose's shoulder. “You were nothing before you met me. You will be nothing without me. That naughty mouth of yours belongs to me. Put it where it belongs, and if you can please me to my satisfaction, I will overlook your impertinence.”

Primrose bit the inside of her lip so hard that it bled. “Yes, Master,” she said, and rose to her feet, fighting her shaking knees. Helganish slid his hand across her shoulder, pulling her into his side. Her eyes didn't move from Yusufa’s corpse.

“There now, kitten.” Helgenish said, pressing his nose against her hair. “Of course, there will be a punishment. But you're lucky. You still belong to me.”

“Master,” Primrose said, as she sank her hands down under her skirt, to where the dagger was strapped to her inner thigh.

“Go pleasure yourself.” In one smooth motion, she unsheathed the dagger and sank it into Helgenish’s throat, right underneath the roll of his second chin. His blood flowed over her fingers, satisfyingly warm.

The guards took a moment too late to react. In that moment, Primrose was running. Her escape to the desert blocked, she had no choice but to run back into the catacombs, towards the city. She didn't stop. She didn't look back.

\--- --- ---

The morning desert sun beamed into Therion's eyes. He groaned, rolling over in the inn bed. “It's too bright,” he complained sleepily.

“And it's hot already,” Cyrus said from beside him, lying beneath the thief’s outstretched arm.

“Shit. Did we--” Therion sat up in a sudden panic. Both he and the scholar were fully clothed. He relaxed, but wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Slowly it came back to him. Drunken Cyrus had struggled to remove his shoes, tipped over, and grabbed at Therion for balance. Instead, he had pulled the thief down with him. There was too much dizzy alcohol and giddy laughter for either of them to get up, and they had passed out in the same bed.

Therion pulled himself out of bed, if only to find something to relieve his headache. Cyrus didn't seem to be doing much better, rubbing his eyes and suggesting they find some coffee. They gathered up their belongings, but didn't get far before they overheard a commotion. Therion snuck closer to eavesdrop. It turned out that the owner of the tavern was found dead out in the desert along with one of his dancers- both of them victims of stab wounds.

“We need to leave,” Therion said quietly, eyeing the agitated, suspicious townsfolk.

“I'm fairly certain it wasn't us this time,” Cyrus said.

Therion shushed him. “I don't care. We should go.”

“I suppose we need to be moving on to Wellspring in any case,” Cyrus said. “Perhaps we can get coffee to go?”

“No time,” Therion said, grabbing Cyrus’ arm, and pulling him along. “Trust me. I've gotten very good at recognizing when it's time to leave a town. Even if we did nothing, we're still strangers here, and some of the first suspects.” _Plus I lifted several hundred leaves and a nice gold chain from drunks in the tavern last night, and they don't need to find that when they decide to interrogate us,_ Therion thought.

Lost in the alleyways, the pair made their way towards the city gates. There were several city watchmen posted, asking questions of anyone who was trying to leave.

“Great,” Therion said, surveying the situation. 

“We have alibis,” Cyrus said. “Anyone could have seen us at the tavern last night.”

“Or heard your horrendous singing,” Therion said. His eyes scanned the crowd for anyone who might be at the tavern the night before, but his hungover brain was fuzzy. “Or those two girls you barreled into.”

“The dancer,” Cyrus said.

“I don't know if she was a dancer or not.”

“No, right there!” Cyrus pointed. “In that hood!”

The dancer looked up, to see Cyrus pointing at her.

“She can clear our name! Miss! Excuse me, miss!” Cyrus strode across the square towards the dancer, who paled and tried to duck into the crowd.

“You can't just--” Therion said fruitlessly, hurrying after Cyrus. He had caught up to the woman, who wasn't able to slip far enough away down a side alleyway.

“Pardon me, but you're that dancer!” Cyrus exclaimed. “I had unfortunately almost ran you over last night, if I recall. But before that, I saw your performance! You were magnificent!”

“Quiet!” Primrose hissed, eyes wary. She realized she was trapped, with the scholar blocking her exit, and the plaza beyond teeming with guards.

“Hey, sorry about him,” Therion said, trying to salvage the interaction. “We were just leaving for Wellspring, and we're not from here, so we were wondering--”

Cyrus was still gushing. “Oh, you were inspiring! Never have I seen anyone more so gracefully!”

Two of the plaza guards turned their heads at the commotion.

“Shut up!” she hissed, as the patrol officers approached. Her eyes were wide. Cyrus was oblivious.

“You're the one they're looking for,” Therion said. Panic flashed over the dancer's face.

As the officers neared, Primrose grabbed Therion, crushing her lips against his, wrapping her arms around him, and shielding herself from view with his body. Therion was caught off guard by the soft urgency of the kiss, and just stared at the dancer in confusion. As the patrolers passed, Cyrus gave them a goofy grin and a shrug, and they walked on with a nod.

“They've gone,” Cyrus whispered.

The dancer broke off the kiss, and Therion felt like he needed to gasp for air. 

“The hell?” he asked, staring at her.

“Sorry. Thanks. I needed to hide.” She glanced around quickly. “I need to get out of here. You two are leaving? I'm coming with you.”

“What?” Therion asked, confused.

“Sure, you can come with us,” Cyrus said.

“What?” Therion said again, in the same tone. “Cyrus, she--”

“I happen to be an excellent judge of character,” Cyrus said.

Therion raised an eyebrow.

“Did you know Helgenish?” Primrose said, leveling her eyes at the theif. “Do you know how he treated people? Girls? Innocent until they met him, then treated like his property? Thrown away like garbage when he tired of them? Or just--” she stopped, emotion choking her voice. She hardened her gaze 

Therion set his jaw, and stared her down. “I've heard things about men like him.”

“They're probably true,” she said. “We can help each other out. And just admit it, now,” she put on a sultry smile, “wouldn't you care to spend a little more time with me?” 

“I see what you're doing, lady,” Therion said. “Let me tell you right now it's not going to work on me.”

“Yeah, I was sort of getting that vibe from you,” she said. “Look, help a girl out. I need to get out of the city, and they'll be less suspicious of a group than a lone woman. I can pay you.”

“Therion,” Cyrus said, his look making the argument for him. 

He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. Let's just go.”

Primrose pulled her hood back over her head, carefully tucking her hair back. They moved to the gates, where the guards asked them a few questions. Primrose hung back, letting the hood cast a shadow over her face, while Cyrus proceed to talk the guards' ears off about nothing of consequence. Finally, one guard turned to Therion and held his hand out suggestively. Sighing inwardly, Therion greased his palm with a few leaves, and the guard nodded them through. 

They walked in silence until they were over a desert ridge, out of sight of the city.

“I can't believe I made it,” Primrose said, pulling back the hood of her cloak. “If only…” she said, glancing back wistfully at Sunshade. She got a far away, longing look in her eyes.

Therion crossed his arms. “There was talk of payment,” he said.

“There was,” Primrose said. “I'm afraid I have bad news for you.”

“Great.” Therion threw up his hands. “Well, good luck to you, then.” He started off down the desert trail. Cyrus glanced from Therion to Primrose, unsure of himself.

“Wait!” Primrose said, trotting up next to Therion, and touching his arm to slow him. “You said you were going to Wellspring.”

“What about it?”

“You could use a guide.”

“I thought you weren't allowed to leave Sunshade,” Therion said.

“Not on my own. I've been taken to Wellspring many times.” She eyed Therion. “You're looking for the Black Market, I bet.”

Therion said nothing.

Primrose smiled. “I can get you in.”

“What's in it for you?” Therion asked.

“I hide out with you two until they stop looking for me. Until we get out of the Sunlands.”

Therion stared her down. He glanced to Cyrus, who shrugged.

“She could use our assistance,” Cyrus said quietly.

Therion sighed again. He didn't trust this girl. He didn't like that Cyrus was such a fan of her dancing. He didn't like her pushy attitude. But Cyrus was right. And the fact that Cyrus was the one trying to convince him made the argument stronger. 

Therion threw up his hands “Fine. Whatever. Welcome to the party.”


	10. Wellspring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion searches for a mask, finds more than he bargained for. Cyrus can't dance.

The three crossed the sands south towards Wellspring. While Therion and Cyrus were still struggling and sweating in the heat, Primrose seemed immune. 

“Wait, so let me get this straight, said Primrose. She had been asking very prying questions about their journeys. Therion had been too worn down by the heat to equivocate or evade. “You're a thief, but you're working for some noble lady to steal back these gems that got stolen from her, because she caught you breaking into her house to steal those same gems?”

Therion wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “...yeah. I guess.”

“She must have some leverage on you.”

“Something like that.”

Prim didn't take the hint. “So you can't be the only one after them. Such valuable gemstones? You think you have competition?”

Therion laughed. “There might be other thieves, but trust me, I don't have any competition.”

Wellspring was more vibrant than Sunshade, with bustling marketplaces and people buzzing around the oasis lake in the center of town. But still, the heat was relentless.

“Where's the nearest tavern?” Therion asked. “I need a drink.”

“I could use some time out of the sun, as well,” Cyrus said.

“This isn't even the dry season,” Primrose said, rolling her eyes. “But let's go. We need a plan, anyway.”

They stumbled into the tavern, Cyrus praising the shade and the coolness of the dim interior. Therion ordered them a round of ale, too tired from the journey to try to finesse the bartender into any discounts or favors. He brought these back to the table in the corner that Prim and Cyrus had seated themselves at--quiet, away from the doorway and any listening ears. Therion nodded his approval to Prim.

The dancer sipped her beer, holding the taste on her tongue before she spoke. “So, the Black Market isn't really like, a place. It's an event.”

“What does that mean?” Therion asked.

“They hold it every month,” Primrose explained. “At the new moon, so it's dark. The next one is in two days. They have a sort of… social event. Sellers schmooze with their buyers, there's drinks, and food, and music, and dancers. Then when everyone's all liquored up, they start buying, but not like a regular market. The sellers bargain with the buyers, and they keep going around to try to get better offers and getting the buyers more drinks and dancers to try to convince them to spend more. The whole place clears out by sunrise, though.”

“So we just go in pretending to be buyers?” Therion asked.

Prim shook her head. “Nothing to sell, no money to buy? Not suspicious at all. Besides, you need to wear one of these odd masks they have. You get them by knowing someone on the inside.”

“Do we know someone on the inside?” Cyrus asked hopefully.

Prim shook her head.

“I can steal one,” Therion said. “Just point me at the mark.”

“Yes, but we'll need three,” Cyrus said.

Therion shook his head. “I can handle it, it's my job.”

Cyrus crossed his arms. “You are not going in alone. It didn't work well for you in Atlasdam, nor for I in Quarrycrest.”

Prim raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but Cyrus and Therion ignored her unspoken question.

Therion leveled his eyes as Cyrus. “Then what's your genius plan?”

“It's coming to me, give it time.”

“I have an idea,” Prim said. The two men turned to her. “We go in as dancers. Dancers don't need masks.”

“What?” Therion asked.

“Brilliant!” Cyrus exclaimed. “Except… I'm afraid I dance as well as I sing.”

“That good, huh?” Therion teased. 

“Well, not all three of us,” Primrose said. “We'll need a Master. That's how it works. So we'll still need one mask, but that should be easier.” She nodded to Therion. “Just the two of us will be dancers.”

Therion's eyes widened. “Me?”

Cyrus nodded. “I think that can work. If Therion can get us a mask.”

“Wait, wait--” Therion threw up his hands. “Why do I have to be the dancer? Why not you?”

“Because I'm horrible at dancing,” Cyrus said.

“And you're younger,” Primrose chimed in.

“Two left feet,” Cyrus said, shrugging.

“And you've got some sassy attitude about you that will do well.”

“You've got the better body. Goodness knows these travels have been more exercise than I had in all of last semester.”

“And Cyrus will be able to play the Master off more easily. He's got the manner of speech and he knows enough to make up some lies.”

“I do like making up stories.”

“And if something goes wrong, he can cause a distraction.”

“I am an excellent distraction.”

Therion looked from one expectant traveling companion to the other. His eyes settled on Primrose. “If I knew I was to be outvoted like this, I would have thought twice about letting you come along.”

“This is a good plan,” she said. “It'll work. Once we're in, you just sneak off and find your gem or whatever.”

“As long as you can acquire that mask,” Cyrus pointed out.

“Oh, I can get it,” Therion said. 

“I'll get you an outfit, then,” Primrose said, standing and reaching for Therion's hands. “Stand up, let me see about sizing.”

“An _outfit_?”

“Yeah, you think you can dance in that?” Prim said. “You're filthy and lumpy.”

“I keep tons of useful stuff in this thing,” Therion said, clutching his purple tunic protectively. “And we're all filthy. Sand will do that.”

“That's a good point,” Prim said, nodding to Cyrus. “You'll want to wash your clothes to look more the part. Do you have anything less… scholarly?”

Cyrus looked down at his clothes and frowned. “I suppose I can do some laundry. And perhaps get a haircut.”

“Yes, good,” Prim agreed.

Cyrus ran his hands over his jaw. “And a decent, professional shave.”

“You'll be wearing a mask,” Therion said.

Cyrus looked sideways at him. “Confidence begets success.”

Primrose nodded at Therion. “We'll need some money.”

The thief looked to Cyrus. He waved his hands. “I depleted the last of my savings in Clearbrook.”

Sighing, Therion fished a coin purse out of one of the many pockets of his tunic.

\--- --- ---

Therion strolled through the bazaar, his eyes down and his ears open. So close to the opening of the Black Market, he was sure to overhear something. He stopped at an occasional stall, pretending to examine the wares while he listened.

“Spare change? Kind sir, spare some change?” A pauper, dressed in rags, was making the rounds. Customers were making excuses and shuffling off, merchants giving him the stink eye. He made his way down the street until he reached Therion.

“Spare a leaf or two?” he asked. Therion looked him over, then pulled an apple pilfered from a fruit stand out of his tunic. The pauper smiled.

“Aelfric bless ya, sir,” he said reaching for the apple. Therion let him take it, then pulled out a second for himself.

“You from here?” Therion asked.

“Here, there, Marsalim, Sunshade,” the pauper said, taking a juicy bite of the apple.

“Maybe you could help me out a bit,” Therion said, “and maybe I can scrounge up some wine for you to wash down that apple.”

The pauper smiled. “I can tell you a lot about the goings-on in this town.”

\--- --- ---

The pauper had told him everything he needed to know about the Market, finding a mask, and even some rumors about the gem. Therion gave the man enough for a bottle of wine and a warm dinner at the tavern, and went on his way. He found his mark a bit outside town, standing amid some packing crates used for storage of the merchants' wares. The man was wearing a fine dark coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat on his head. His shiny black boots looked like they cost more than the entirety of Therion's current possessions. A sliver of the mask, tied at his waist, could be seen under the edge of his coat. Therion looked around. There was nobody to be seen. The thief smiled in anticipation.

Using the crates as cover, he snuck closer to where the man was standing and reading over lines in his small ledger book. The sand muffled Therion's light steps. He could see the mask, and the string that kept it tied to the man's belt. Carefully, he reached for it.

A hand clapped around his wrist. Therion felt the fear surge through him. 

“And what do you think you're doing?” The man said, turning, twisting Therion's wrist.

“I'm sorry--” Therion stammered. “I slipped, and I--” The man yanked on his wrist, pulling him out from behind the crates to face him.

“Save your thin excuses,” the man said. His face was shaded by the hat he wore, and difficult to make out. Therion looked at the gloved hand that held his wrist, peeking out of a fine coat with a lace edge.

“You want this mask?” the man asked.

Therion was silent, scanning his peripheral vision for an escape route.

“You should have just asked,” the man said. “Perhaps I can sell it to you.”

“I….” Therion couldn't find the words. For some reason, he never thought of purchasing as an option.

“How much do you have?” the man asked. He still hadn't released Therion's wrist.

“No, it's okay, I'll just--” Therion said, trying to pull away. 

The man's hand tightened around his wrist.

“I asked how much you have.” the man said again, his voice firm.

Therion's hand went to his coin purse. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his dagger, but he dismissed that as an option. This man looked like he had enough money and influence to send the watch after him, and that would ruin his chance at the Dragonstone tonight, not to mention putting Cyrus and Prim at risk. Therion retrieved his money, and held out the coins.

The man snatched the purse, still twisting Therion's wrist. He weighed it in his hand, shaking his head.

“That's not enough,” he said.

“Sorry, I guess I'll just--” Therion tried to pull his wrist back, but the man held it tight.

“I said, it's not enough,” the man said sternly. “What else do you have?”

“Look, man, I--” 

“You want this mask. I'll sell you this mask.” The man said. “For the right price.”

Therion stared at the man's shadowed eyes, weighting options in his head. None of them seemed good. He had lost his upper hand, and his chance of escape. The man had seen his face clearly by now, and if he used force to try to escape, he would have to leave town. The man wasn't listening to him enough to talk his way out of it. And they were alone-- no one nearby to catch their attention, to create a diversion.

Therion squared his gaze. “What do you want?”

The man smiled, revealing his perfect white teeth. “You have an awfully pretty mouth,” the man said. 

His free hand reached up and tugged down Therion's scarf. The thief tried to pull away, but the man drew him closer by his wrist. He forced Therion's hand down onto the bulge in the front of his trousers. Therion's eyes narrowed as he understood.

“Unless you want me to alert the watch,” the man said. “This is one of those towns where they chop the hands off of thieves, right?”

Therion swallowed the lump in his throat. He was fully aware of the Sunlands’ ideas of justice.

“Then get on your knees,” the man said.

Therion sank to the sand. The man did not let go of his wrist. With one hand, the man undid the clasp of his pants, releasing his arousal.

“Satisfy me and I may reward you,” he said, sliding the head of his erection along the side of Therion's cheek. The thief pulled away, but the man grabbed a chunk of his scarf and twisted it, pulling Therion closer to him. The man was smiling down at him with those perfect white teeth. Therion closed his eyes.

He felt the man move the head of his cock up his cheek, up his forehead. He felt the soft skin of the man's scrotum slide over his lips, and he shivered.

“Suck,” the man ordered, and Therion opened his mouth to let the stranger's balls fall onto his tongue.

He had a sudden flash of the image through his mind, of what this might look like to an outsider. Anyone could pass by, look over, see him on his knees in front of this complete stranger. The man moved, pulling out of Therion's mouth, dragging the wet skin over his face. Therion clenched his free hand into a fist. The man still held his other wrist, so tightly that he could feel the circulation getting cut off. He didn't dare open his eyes, because he knew if he looked up, he would see that perfect smile gleaming down at him.

He felt the man's gloved finger press against his mouth, working his jaw open wider. Therion let his mouth fill with the man's cock. It wasn't huge-- he could take the whole thing easily. A sigh of pleasure escaped from the stranger's lips, and he twisted Therion closer into him. The thief fell forward, catching himself against the stranger's legs. The man started fucking his throat, but with slow, relaxed motions. 

Therion tried his best not to move, to just let the stranger do whatever he was going to do to him, so that he could get out of there. He realized that his tongue was moving over the hard length, his lips pressing against it, reflexively. He hated himself for it, and tried to stop, but the stranger was picking up speed, rocking against the back of his throat. The pulled him even closer, turning Therion's hand around and pressing against his ass. 

The thief was pressed up against the man's leg, straddling his foot. Therion felt the toe move, pressing against his own cock. The stranger circled his boot against him. There was nowhere Therion could move to, his face pushed all the way against the stranger's body as he moved them together, still fucking his mouth.

The man's toes pressed down sharply, squeezing the thief's balls against the ground. He tried to scream in pain, but the sound was muffled by the cock in his throat. As he tried to pull away, he felt the man's cock twitch, and warm come spurted over his tongue. The stranger held fast to his wrist until he was done, using a hand to milk the last drops out onto Therion's lips.

As soon as the man released his wrist, Therion fell backwards, holding himself between the legs. The man grinned down at him with a sadistic, perfect smile. He redressed himself, then untied the mask from his hip. He tossed it down in the sand next to Therion.

“This is an extra, anyway,” the man said. “Hope to see you again tomorrow night.” 

He flashed his teeth again and turned, his coat whirling behind him as he crossed the sands. A long, lavender braid had fallen out from where it had been tucked behind his collar, falling down the stranger's back.

\--- --- ---

That afternoon, they regrouped at the inn room they had rented. Cyrus had clean clothes and a haircut, Therion had the mask, and Primrose had something shimmery and purple that concerned Therion.

“Try it on!” she said. “I had to eyeball the sizing.”

The thief took it from her, the smooth cloth almost slippery in his hands. “Isn't this some shit.”

“And I want us to practice a routine,” she said.

“Wait, we're actually dancing? I thought it was just a cover story.”

“We need to be able to back it up if need be,” Primrose said. “You never know. Plus, I think you'd be good at it. I see the way you move.”

Therion frowned. “I guess.”

“If only we had some music,” Prim lamented.

“There's a piano downstairs,” Cyrus offered.

“You know how to play?” Therion arched an eyebrow.

“Passably,” Cyrus said. 

“Let's go, then,” Primrose said, visibly excited. She turned to Therion. “If you're too embarrassed to be seen in the dancer garb, at least put on the sandals. You have to get used to moving in those.”

“Yeah, I will.” Therion set the shimmery outfit on the bed, and followed the other two downstairs with sandals in hand.

There was a common area near the entrance of the inn, with an old piano in one corner. Cyrus asked permission from the innkeeper in his overly formal way, while Primrose moved some tables to make room for a stage. Therion flopped on a bench to unlace his boots, watching Cyrus cross to the piano.

“So, he can't carry a tune, and he can't dance, but we're supposed to expect he can play the piano?” Therion asked.

Cyrus flung his cloak over the back of the bench, sitting at the instrument. “I have many hidden talents,” he said. Fingers poised over the keys, he plucked out a few notes in a scale, hitting a sour one. 

Primrose cringed.

“Apologies,” Cyrus said. “It has been more than a few years.”

Therion rolled his eyes. “Well, looks like dance practice is cancelled. Time to hit the tav--”

He was interrupted by a flurry of notes, arranging themselves into a light hearted rhythm. As he listened, Cyrus introduced the counterpoint tones, creating a complete melody. He improvised on that for a while, before ending in a flourish. He looked up at Therion's stunned expression, a smug grin on his face.

“My mother was a musician and private piano teacher for the noble families in Atlasdam,” the scholar said. “I was required to complete an hour of practice every night before dinner.”

“Damn, Cyrus,” Primrose said, pleased. “Can you do something… sexy? Like a bum- ba da dum…” she started humming a rhythm, which Cyrus matched, before adding in a higher melody accompaniment.

“There you go!” Prim said, happily. “Therion,” she said, holding out a hand.

The thief shook his head. “How can you even do that with no music, or whatever?” 

“Music is mathematical,” Cyrus said while he played. “I'm skilled at math.”

“Come now,” Prim said. “I'm just going to teach you a few moves, and then how to follow my lead.” She backed up, her hips starting to sway.

Therion watched Primrose, listened to Cyrus’ playing, and did his best to mimic the movements. Prim gave him praise and pointers, and he occasionally glanced up at Cyrus, self-conscious. But the scholar was watching his hands, concentrating on his playing. Prim took his hands and slid them around her hips, showing him where to hold her for some dips and twirls.

“Lower,” she said. “Don't worry about grabbing my ass. It's sort of the point.”

Therion nodded, sticking the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Okay, from the top,” Prim said. “Let's see how you do.”

Cyrus took the cue, and rested a few beats, before restarting the beginning of his melody. Counting his steps, watching Primrose for the cues, staying light on his feet, he was able to match her pretty well, and even lead a bit when they came together. Cyrus started in on a finale, and Prim twirled with a flourish against Therion's chest. He dipped her backwards, and she grabbed his hand to trail it down across her breasts. Therion froze, wondering if he were somehow breaking the rules. His confusion was shattered by unexpected applause.

Looking up, he noticed that a dozen or so patrons of the inn had gathered in the common room, watching the show and listening to Cyrus' playing. Therion flushed almost as deep as his tunic.

“Thank you, thank you!” Primrose said, sweeping into a graceful curtsey. She spotted a decorative bowl on one of the tables, swept it up, and set it on the floor to collect tips. “You are all as kind as you are beautiful!”

Even if she was glad to be free of her past life, it was clear she still enjoyed dancing and performing.

A few patrons dropped some leaves into the bowl, complimenting the dancers. An elderly man approached Cyrus, asking if he could have a go at playing. Cyrus relinquished the bench, and the old man sat and began some peppy ragtime tune. The elderly innkeeper approached, a wide smile on her face.

“I've got a cask of ale to offer, as long as you all promise to give my customers another show,” she said, pleased with the boost to her business.

“We could always use more practice,” Primrose said.

“And alcohol,” Therion grumbled.

“Come with me, young man,” she nodded to Cyrus. Cyrus glanced back at them with a knowing look. “Young,” he mouthed.

Therion shook his head, and slumped down at a table.

“I had a feeling you would be good at this,” Primrose said, sliding in next to him. “It helps that you're not distracted by me.”

“Why would I--” Therion began, then looked sideways at Primrose, sensing a trap.

“Because you're gay,” the dancer said.

Therion stared at her for a full minute before speaking. “Why do you say that?”

Prim shook her head. “Well, if you didn't know that about yourself, sorry to spoil it--”

“No, I know,” Therion said. “I’ve known that since I was thirteen. How do _you_ know?”

Primrose smiled. “I have a sense about it. Anyway, it makes this less complicated. Why I insisted on you.”

Therion glanced towards Cyrus, who was still chatting with the innkeeper. “You were afraid Cyrus was going to fall for you? Since he's straight?”

Primrose shook her head. “Cyrus isn't straight.”

Therion smirked. “Guess your ‘sense’ isn't that reliable. I saw-- I know for a fact that he's into women.”

“I never said he wasn't.” Primrose glanced up and smiled at Cyrus, who was approaching with three tall mugs of ale.

“According to the reviews here,” Cyrus said, setting down the glasses, “you both did an amazing job. Hopefully I won't have to play tomorrow night, so I can actually watch. I'm insanely jealous.”

“Even though you say you're a bad dancer,” Primrose said, “I could try to teach you.”

Cyrus brightened. “Excellent! I will undoubtedly make a fool of myself, but I'm eager to learn nonetheless!”

Therion studied his face, trying to discern if he was more excited to learn to dance, or to learn from Primrose. He couldn't tell. The scholar's face was unreadable sometimes.

Therion and Primrose rehearsed once again, to applause, tips, and drink refills from the growing assembly in the common room. A few others got up to dance, other musicians taking their turns--a pair of newly arrived patrons were bards, taking up the entertainment with their guitar, lyre, and voices.

While Therion relaxed and enjoyed his ale, he watched Primrose attempt to teach Cyrus to dance. Two things became immediately obvious: one, Cyrus was not flirting with Primrose. He was far more interested in her skills than her beauty. Second, Cyrus was incurably hopeless as a dancer. How he managed to stay upright through the entire lesson was a mystery, both from his disjointed movements and the fits of laughter both he and Primrose broke into at his attempts. Therion just watched, smiling to himself.

“It's no use, I'm afraid,” Cyrus said.

Primrose shook her head with a smile. “I've tried all I can think of. Therion?” They both turned to the thief. “Maybe you can teach him.”

Cyrus smiled, and held out a hand. Time slowed to a snail's pace. Therion was caught up in the intensity of Cyrus’ eyes, the warm smile, the inviting palm. He felt his pulse quicken. He dropped his eyes down to his drink.

“I probably wouldn't be any help,” he muttered.

Cyrus shrugged. “Perhaps some more independent practice,” he said.

Prim gave the scholar a smile, then sauntered towards the door. As she passed Therion, she caught his eyes and whispered, “I gave you an opening, dumbass.” The thief just looked at her, caught off guard. _How does she--?_

“ _He_ might be oblivious, but it's clear from the way you look at him,” Prim whispered, so clearly that Therion was sure Cyrus had heard it.

But he hadn't. The scholar was still practicing his turns, catching himself on the wrong foot more often than not. Therion chugged his ale, and watched.


	11. The Black Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion's second job is a dancer. He's looking for an emerald, but he finds trouble.

There was a mirror in the inn room, but it was mounted above the table with the pitcher and washbasin, so Therion had to stand on a chair to see the reflection of his lower body in the dancer's outfit. As he turned on the chair, he became concerned for a number of reasons.

The pants were too tight. Far too tight. The slinky fabric had a bit of stretch to it, and it hugged every curve and outline of his lower body. The midriff-baring shirt somehow felt more revealing than if he hadn't been wearing a shirt at all. And the dark, jagged scar on his stomach was clearly visible. He traced his finger over it. It was almost two years old at this point, and although the physical pain had gone… 

He shook his head, trying to push away the memories that threatened to overtake his mind. He looked again in the mirror, and snatched up his scarf from the bed, looping it around his shoulders. It matched well enough, he supposed. 

There was a knock on the door. Therion barely had time to step off the chair before it opened, and Primrose stepped into the room. She lifted a pensive finger to the side of her mouth.

“Not bad, not bad,” she said, appraising the outfit. “Spin for me.”

Therion gave her an irritated look, but turned slowly. “These pants are crazy tight.”

“But your ass looks amazing,” Prim said knowingly. She eyed him up, clearly noticing the scar on his stomach, but she didn't say anything. “I'm not sure about the scarf.”

“The scarf stays.”

“What if…” the dancer tried to slide it from his shoulders, but Therion grabbed it, narrowing his eyes at her. She returned the look. “Just trust me, okay?” 

Therion let her take his scarf, watching her eyes as she noticed the leather collar Cordelia Ravus had locked on him. No amount of fiddling with the tiny, uniquely crafted locking mechanism had been successful, and the metal within the leather bands had kept him from cutting it. Primrose nodded her approval. “That's cute,” she said. “I like that.”

“That makes one of us, then,” Therion said, trying to take the scarf from her. She pulled it back.

“Why are you wearing it if you don't like it?”

“Why are you asking questions that are none of your business?” Therion retorted.

Primrose gave him a look, and wrapped the scarf around his waist, tying it above his hip. The knot covered most of the scar, and the ends of the scarf hung down to sway as he walked. She smiled. “Perfect.”

He headed downstairs, to where Cyrus were waiting. The Black Market was open tonight.

Cyrus was sitting in the common room, chatting with the elderly innkeeper. He stood when he saw them. As he rose, that intense gaze locked with Therion's. The thief felt the heat rising to his cheeks, and quickly looked away. Primrose smiled slyly in the thief's direction.

“Are we prepared?” Cyrus asked.

Therion crossed his arms. “As ready as I'm ever gonna get. Let's get this over with.”

\--- --- ---

The entrance to the Black Market was past the stacks of merchant crates that Therion had been to earlier, where he had found the man with the mask. It's wasn't exactly hidden--it was just a narrow entrance, heavily guarded. They hung back, waiting to see if there was some kind of protocol to getting in, but it seemed as simple as walking up with a mask on.

“Okay, Therion,” Primrose said. “You have to be happier. Flirty. Attractive.”

Therion scoffed. “Am I not attractive?”

“You need to scowl less.” She nudged Cyrus, who was toying with the strap on his mask. “Give me that thing I had you hold.”

“Right.” Cyrus pulled a flask out of his cloak pocket, handing it to Prim. She undid the top, and took a swig. 

“Here.” She handed it to Therion. “Loosen up.” 

Therion took the container and sniffed it. “Strong stuff.”

“It helps with situations like these,” Primrose said. Therion took a drink. It burned all the way down his throat.

“Ugh,” he said, handing it back to Cyrus.

“I can smell it through the mask,” the scholar said. He recapped it, and put it back in his cloak. Therion couldn't stop looking at him in the mask, how he seemed so unlike himself. Somehow hearing his voice coming from the foreign, unmoving face unnerved the thief. But, he was already unnerved by this whole plan. He would have much preferred just going in alone.

“Shall we?” Cyrus said. Therion nodded, and they walked towards the entrance.

Getting in was not an issue. The guards spoke to Cyrus, who in his flowery way explained that they were there as entertainment. The more Therion heard Cyrus lie, the more he was impressed--he could say so much without actually saying anything, and it always sounded good. _He could have made an excellent con man,_ Therion thought. The guards looked the two dancers up and down. Primrose smiled and winked at a guard, but Therion just stared. Prim elbowed him in the side, and he forced a smile.

“Alright,” the guard grunted, and motioned them inside. Cyrus thanked him, and swept the two dancers inside, an arm over each of their bare shoulders. Therion couldn't see it, but he felt like Cyrus was grinning.

“You're really enjoying this, aren't you?” Therion asked, keeping his voice low.

“Acting is something else I've always wanted to try,” Cyrus whispered. 

They walked into the cavern, which was dark the entrance, but soon opened up into a swirl of light and noise. Torches set in the walls illuminated the pathway, which was flanked by merchants and buyers in masks just like Cyrus’, looking over tables of wares watched by eagle-eyed guards. Therion's eyes were drawn to the treasures-- weapons, magical artifacts, paintings and sculptures, the finest aged wines and liquors, and… gemstones. No doubt most of these things had been stolen. These merchants relied on thieves like himself to take the risks, then they purchased the goods for a fraction of what they would be sold for here-- but it was enough to get the hapless thief living large until he needed to find his next big score. Therion wondered if anything he had stolen and sold had ended up here. 

Primrose had reached past Cyrus and slapped Therion on the elbow. “Smile!” she hissed. “They're looking at you!”

Shifting his gaze from the treasures to the people, he noticed masks turned in his direction. It was eerie, not being able to see the expressions of those looking at him. He had to imagine. Did they… _like_ what they saw? Therion wasn't sure if he was more comfortable with a yes or a no. Prim slapped him again, and he forced a smile onto his lips. He looked at her, smiling seductively, shimmying her hips, giving little waves here and there--she clearly knew how to handle this. Therion felt ridiculous. Exposed. Most of his past success had relied on being hidden. 

“Just have fun with it,” Cyrus whispered, the mouth of his mask at Therion's ear. “Too much will be far less suspicious than too little.”

“Easy for you to say,” Therion muttered. “You're wearing a mask.” The memory of watching Cyrus fail miserably at dancing floated through his mind. As if the scholar could ever be self-conscious about anything. The memory made him smile nonetheless. He decided that instead of waving like Prim, maybe he'd try a little nod and a smile. Make it flirty, she had said. Maybe a little butt wiggle.

He tried, and was getting a good reaction from the onlookers. This, plus the little buzz from Prim's strong liquor, made him a little bolder. He put a little sashay into his steps. Maybe it wasn't too bad to be noticed. But then as the trio walked by, Therion realized it was someone familiar who was noticing him.

The man in the black hat and expensive coat, the one who he had obtained the mask from, was looking at him. He was wearing a mask now, but Therion was certain it was him. He almost tripped. The man saw him looking, and ran a gloved hand over his groin, suggestively. Therion couldn't see it, but he knew he was smiling with those perfectly white teeth.

Therion looked away quickly, and almost stumbled again. On the other side of the hall, with three guards in attendance, a merchant was showing off a brilliant green emerald. It was the same size, shape, and cut as the ruby and sapphire Dragonstones. He nudged Cyrus, and nodded towards the stone. Cyrus looked, and started steering them towards it.

“Not now,” Therion hissed, pulling them back. “Subtle, man, we have to be subtle.”

“My apologies,” Cyrus whispered. Primrose had noticed the stone, and looked back to Therion with a question on her face. Therion nodded. 

They reached the main hall, where couches and tables were set up for buyers and merchants to make their deals in luxurious comfort. Food and drink were being served from a bar on the edge of the hall. A band was playing in the center, and dancers flitted about, earning tips for their Masters. There were a few other male dancers, but most were women.

“Good evening, sir!” a portly masked man greeted Cyrus. “What lovely entertainers you've brought tonight.”

“I only brought my best,” Cyrus answered, laying on the sleaze.

“I'm in the market for some new talent, myself.” The fat man said. “Why don't I get you a drink, and we'll see how well your beauties can work a crowd.”

Therion swallowed back the indignation. Prim seemed to take the comments in stride, still standing with that vapid smile on her face. Her act was well rehearsed. 

“I would love a drink,” Cyrus said. He turned to the dancers. “Go, er… earn your keep?”

Therion almost laughed, but Prim sank into a graceful curtsey. “Yes, Master,” she said, and grabbing Therion by the arm, twirled away with him. Cyrus let the fat man lead him to a table.

Therion was left glancing nervously around the room, almost hoping he could hide behind Primrose. He saw the dancers around the room, being pawed at by those in the masks, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Prim's hand was on his shoulder. He turned, and she nodded to a little raised oval of floor near the band.

“If we're on stage, they can't touch us,” she whispered. “That's why I had us practice.”

“You're more clever than you let on,” Therion whispered back.

“Act dim and no one suspects you.” Prim led the both of them towards the stage. She whispered to a band member as Therion stepped up on stage. He leaned a hand down to help up his dance partner. The music changed into a saucy tango as he pulled Primrose up on stage. She leaned into the momentum, falling towards him. Therion dipped her back dramatically, to a few cheers from those in the crowd who had noticed, and an approving half-smile from Prim. He pulled her up, and she twirled under his arm with a flourish. They fell easily into their practiced routine. 

Therion was aware of the growing number of eyes on him. The distance between him and those in the masks was transforming his earlier unease into something like confidence, knowing that he was out of their reach. He was a little excited by it now, and that combined with the shot of Prim's strong drink, his muscles were moving fluidly and effortlessly as they danced. He knew they looked good--he knew _he_ looked good. He hadn't thought that about himself in a while.

Following Primrose's steps, Therion didn't notice the tall, masked stranger who sat down at Cyrus's table after the fat man had moved on. The scholar nodded to him in greeting.

“I hear those two are yers,” the stranger said.

Cyrus sipped his drink cooly, trying to play the character of the Master. “They are indeed.”

“Nice, nice,” the stranger said. Cyrus watched his companion’s gaze slide across the two dancers’ bodies. “How much?”

Cyrus had already thought about how to answer this question, if it came up. “These two aren't actually for sale, I’m afraid,” he said. “I've been tasked by my employer to take them around to show off his new business. A bit of advertising, if you will.”

“Employer, eh?” the stranger said. He leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ye don't be workin’ for Simeon now, do ye?”

Cyrus studied the stranger. He was realizing it was terribly difficult to read people when they wore masks. He leaned in, matching the stranger's tone. “I wouldn't say _for_. I handle my own affairs.”

“Aye, aye,” the stranger nodded, satisfied with Cyrus’ non-answer. He turned his eyes back up to the stage. “But if you're looking to make some coin tonight, send that wicked one up there my way, eh?”

Cyrus nodded and sipped his drink. “Perhaps it can be arranged. If she's not otherwise occupied.”

The stranger shook his head. “No, the other one.”

Cyrus eyed him sideways, but the stranger stood suddenly, as if he were embarrassed. He clapped a heavy hand on Cyrus’ shoulder, and moved off into the crowd, surprisingly light on his feet for such a tall man.

On the stage, Primrose and Therion continued, to the cheers and whistles of the intoxicated crowd. The room had filled up, meaning that there were fewer people in the hallway with the wares. Hopefully, it was only the guards.

There were other dancers to showcase, girls and young men who actually _were_ to be sold later in the night. Therion didn't have the time to bemoan their lot in life. Their Masters were now looking to get them some time on stage. A trio climbed up to steal the spotlight, but Prim didn't seem to care, swirling to the side. When Therion saw an opportunity, he slipped off the stage, dipping through the crowd until he could slide around the dark corners of the cavern. He stole into the halls where the wares were stored while their sellers searched for buyers in the hall. He could only hope that the hired guards were as inept and prone to drunkenness as ever.

He snuck along the walls until he found the place where he had spied the gem. There were the guards, but without the supervision of their employer, only one was standing at attention, while the other two passed a bottle between them, seated on some chests. Therion could see a smaller, purple and gold box perched between them. _Bingo._

He sensed a movement behind him and whirled, hand reaching for the dagger he had strapped to the inside of his ankle. He relaxed when he saw it was only Primrose, and annoyance settled onto his face.

“We did your job,” he whispered. “This part is mine.”

Primrose shrugged. “I thought I could help. Does that box have the stone you need?”

“Mm-hmm,” Therion turned back to the guards. “I just have to wait for an opening, and--”

To Therion's horror, Primrose stood up, and started walking towards the guards. She plastered that airheaded smile on her face, and swung her hips as she walked. The guards turned.

“Evening, gentlemen,” she purred. The men's eyes rolled over her body.

“You lost, little bird?” One of the guards laughed.

Prim just smiled. “A little. This place is so big. I was just coming from over there,” she turned to point down the path, but angled her gaze towards Therion's hiding place and winked. She swirled back to face the guards. “And I got all turned around.”

“The hall's over there,” the one guard still fulfilling his duty said, pointing his spear. The one holding the bottle give him an irritated look.

Prim looked deliberately at the bottle, then smiled at the holder's face. “But I might like it better out here,” she said, stepping closer. “All too noisy out there. Do you boys mind?”

“You can have a seat right here,” the third guard laughed, slapping his knee. The bottle holder laughed. Prim just smiled that empty smile.

“Only if you're willing to share,” she motioned to the bottle.

“Oh, we can share,” the bottle holder held it out. Primrose took it as he ran a hand over the exposed skin on her thigh. “We can share lots of things, eh boys?”

The other two laughed. 

While their attention was divided, Therion had snuck around the wall, coming up behind them. He had his bent pin, and was working on the box. For such a precious treasure, the merchant had bought a cheap lock. He had it open in less than two minutes. Looking up, he saw Prim on the lap of one of the guards, stroking the arm of another. She looked back and saw him, but her gaze didn't linger. He eased open the lid of the chest. A flash of green caught his eye, and he snagged it. Realizing only now his lack of pockets, he slid the gem under his waistband, where it stuck pressed against his hip. He nodded to Prim and eased the chest closed, and sank back into the shadows. He heard Primrose making her excuses, inviting them to see her show, knowing full well they wouldn't be paid if they left their posts. _They probably won't be paid now, anyway,_ he thought, feeling the gem through the cloth. He stole away along the passage, down a side corridor as to not be seen by the guards watching Prim leave. 

Warmed by his body heat, the stone was foremost in his mind. He felt warmth flood through his veins, pushing out the chill of the cavern on his bare skin. He felt a tingle in his nerves. The stone had started affecting him, just like the ruby had. The contact with his skin had sped up the process.

He figured that he could just walk towards the music to find his way back, collect Cyrus and Prim, and they could get out of there. But the echoes in the cavern made it difficult to find the main hall. As he turned down yet another corridor, he saw three masked men making their way towards him. He turned to go the other way, but he could hear voices and movement behind him, as well.

He just tried to press himself against the wall as they were about to pass, but they were more than a little interested to find a lone dancer in their secluded corridor.

“Sorry, I--” Therion started, but they had circled around him.

“Hold, there,” one of the men said, holding up a hand. He smiled a sleezy grin. “Where's a tasty thing like you going?” 

He was wearing a deeply cut shirt, so that the entirely of his muscled chest was visible, including the rings piercing his nipples. Therion felt himself staring, and he wondered why--until he remembered the gem pressed against his skin below his hipbone. It had affected him quickly. He felt the effects churning within him, but it wasn't the same as the ruby. The ruby had invoked a sort of hunger. This one felt more along the lines of… submission. A desire to let these anonymous, masked men do what they would with him.

Therion shook the thoughts out of his head. “Sorry, guys, I need to get back before…” he searched for a lie, “before my Master notices me missing.”

“We'll pay him for your time,” one of the men said, this one with a deeper voice than the others.

“Yeah, no need to rush off,” the pierced one said, extending an arm to block his exit.

The dark skinned one pulled out a coin purse. “How about a private dance?”

“I…” Therion started, but couldn't voice any more words. He had started feeling a little detached. His thoughts were moving slowly. He looked at the coin purse, his mouth open, his muscles lazily unresponsive. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he should do something. He just couldn't imagine what.

The pierced man hooked his fingers over the scarf tied around Therion's waist, pulling him forward. Therion held up his hands to keep from crashing into him, his palms falling on the man's mostly bare chest. His skin was warm to the touch, surely flushed with the hum of alcohol.

“That's a bit more like it,” the pierced one said. He rolled his hips, grinding against Therion, pushing the gemstone against his skin. The thief could feel his arousal growing.

So could the deep-voiced man behind him. He had pushed forward, grinding against Therion's ass, his hand snaking around to feel up the front. His fingers curled around the outline of the thief's cock.

The two men were rolling their hips against him, and sandwiched between them, Therion started swaying in a kind of dance he hadn't learned from Primrose. He did it without thinking, pushed by the bodies of the men on either side of him. The pierced man in front of him traced Therion's lips, sliding his fingers into his mouth. Therion felt himself sucking on them, though he had no sense of willing his muscles to do that. 

Before he could realize it, there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him down on his knees. The dark skinned man was standing before him, his trousers undone, his erection inches from Therion's mouth. And then the hand on the back of his head, pushing him forward, his lips parting, the masked man's cock filling his throat.

The dark skinned man groaned as he slid his cock over Therion's lips. Something about his pleasure stirred something deep within Therion. _It's the stone…_ a faint thought echoed through his mind, but he could barely make himself listen to it. 

The pierced man had grabbed his arm, slid the thief's hand onto his cock. Therion stroked it in the same rhythm he used with his lips on the one in his mouth. It wasn't long before the third man had grabbed his other wrist, pressed the head of his own shaft against Therion's palm.

The masked men were talking, low murmurs of pleasure, but Therion couldn't hear them. The low thumping of his own heart pounded in his ears. He pulled his head back, the dark skinned man's length sliding slowly out of his mouth, trailing a strand of saliva down Therion’s chin. Still not thinking, he turned to take the pierced man's cock in his mouth, the one in front of him now in his hand.

His own arousal strained against the tightness of his dancer's outfit. It ached, but with a pain that seemed… right. A pain he deserved. the tiny voice inside him whispered. Therion ignored it, and changed the attentions of his mouth and lips to the deep voiced man's cock.

The two men on his sides pressed forward, thrusting themselves into Therion's hands, while the one before him pressed between his lips. There were hands on his head, his neck, his back, pushing at him. The deep voiced man groaned and shuddered. Therion tasted the stranger's seed on his tongue, and something within him loved the degradation of it. The stone burned hot. 

The other two fought for the attentions of his tongue. It was the thrill he had felt on stage, but multiplied tenfold. He took one into his mouth--he wasn't sure who at this point--and he felt the deep voiced man behind him, running his hands over the curve of his ass, over his hips, between his thighs. He felt hands pull his pants open, start stroking the burning, sensitive length. 

The second man shuddered and came, and Therion swallowed as he rocked his hips to the motions of the hand on his cock. He heard laughter above him, but he ignored it, closing his lips over the third man's erection. 

There were hands on his chest, now. He couldn't see whose they were, with his mouth held against the third man's body. He felt someone lift the barely-there fabric of his shirt, start touching and teasing his nipples. Others were still working his arousal and trailing over the curve of his exposed ass, pressing between the cheeks. It only encouraged the motions of his mouth and tongue. The third man had his fingers in Therion's collar, holding his head against him. He could feel the trembling of the man's muscles as he reached climax. The third man pulled back, and warm come shot onto Therion's left cheek and his chin. 

There was a moment where the thief looked up at the masked face of this anonymous man, and suddenly felt disconnected from reality--he couldn't believe that he was where he was, that he had done what he had done. But then the moment passed as the heat burned through his nerves, and the men behind him had pulled him backwards. 

The pierced man had sat himself on the floor, and pulled Therion back against his body. The thief's head fell right at his chest, his lips brushing against the ring in the man's right nipple. Therion felt his lips reach for it without his brain even processing a thought about it. The same man was stroking his chest. Another had slid Therion's pants down to his knees, and was searching out his entrance with greedy fingers. The third worked his hand over the thief's cock. Therion couldn't move, though that was just as much due to his own inability to fight the heat rolling through him as due to the men's bodies pressed around him, pawing at him. He felt the pressure build within him, felt his muscles tighten, felt utterly at the mercy of his body's desires being manipulated by these strangers. He came with a cry of pleasure, his seed spilling onto his own bare stomach.

His brain struggled to process what happened after that. There was laughter from above him as the heat of the masked men's bodies moved away. He heard the metallic ring of coin on stone, as the men mockingly tipped him a pittance for his efforts. He was aware of his struggle to try to pull his skimpy clothes back on.They had definitely called him a whore. The chill of the cavern slowly returned.

The emerald was gone.

He climbed to his feet, a little shaky, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He searched around, hoping maybe the stone had fallen on the ground. He knew it was gone, as his wits were rapidly returning. The emerald’s powers were strong, but fleeting--and it was no longer near him. Therion charged down the corridor. He heard voices and footsteps, and ran after them, cursing the sandals as they slapped against the stone floor.

And then when Therion turned the corner, he saw him. He hadn't noticed him before, though he had been there the whole time. Seated in the hall, he hadn't revealed his height, or called attention to his ginger hair. The mask had hidden his habitual grin and the scar across the bridge of his nose. But there he stood, without the mask, towering over his lackeys, issuing orders with that unmistakable accent.

Therion muttered the name like a curse under his breath.

“Darius.”


	12. Days Gone By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion has a flashback of his days with Darius. First person for whatever reason? Sure, it's a flashback, why not.

I actually met Darius twice. The first time, we were kids. I was fourteen? Fifteen? Hard to tell. I barely knew what day of the week it was most of the time, let alone when my birthday had come and gone. We had both landed ourselves in jail in Saintsbridge. We were both green, clumsy, over confident. I had gotten caught lifting a meal from a produce vendor in town-- I can still remember how fucking hungry I was, all the time. Darius was a couple years older than me, but he was impressed when I nabbed the key off the guard and let us both make our getaway. And we teamed up for a job right after that, and we scored big--or at least, what we considered big back then. Not worrying about not having enough to eat for a while was good enough for me.

We got some drinks to celebrate, and Darius started going on about us being partners, and I was thrilled. I had run away from a broken home, was drifting from town to town… it seemed like a good thing to have someone to anchor to. Plus, I liked him. I liked his energy, his ambition, his sense of humor. It was going to be good.

Until we were deep in our cups, and he started in on this story. Some thief he used to hang around with had gotten caught down in Riverford. Set to be burned at the stake, like they started doing there. Sad stuff. But then he said something, and I'll never forget his words: “Serves him right. Damn fool was a faggot. That's what them cocksuckers deserve.”

Now, the reason I was even in Saintsbridge in the first place was because of the first guy I had ever fallen for. We had run away together, thinking everything would be great it we could just get out into the world, leave our podunk village behind.. But he had gotten sick of scrounging for food and sleeping in the streets, and he had cut himself a better deal as a boytoy for some rich asshole. So that still stung. And then Darius’ words, so full of hate. They sobered me up right away. I told him I prefered to work alone. Left town the next morning. Never looked back.

I drifted around for a while, honing my craft. I had enough skill to get by at seventeen, started being able to score big enough to live comfortably by nineteen. And that's when I ran into him again. I didn't recognize him at first, though. I was wandering through Grandport, having heard about the Merchant's Fair, but with the number of people and watchmen around, I was feeling out of my depth. Discouraged, I floated to the tavern, and I pulled up a seat and a pint to eavesdrop any info on easy marks. He was a couple seats down, complaining to the barkeep about the crowds in the marketplace--fishing for information on when they would be more empty and he could make a move, no doubt. When the barkeep moved on, I sidled over. I had a hunch, and a vague familiarity that I couldn't place yet.

“Looking for some bargains?” I asked, my intonation clear that I was asking more than I said.

He picked up on it, muttering with a grin, “Hopin’ fer some o’ that five-finger discount.”

I nodded knowingly. “I hear the evening's the best opportunity. Merchants are tired from a long day, some start hitting the bottle early.”

Darius eyed me sideways. I knew he was appraising me. Undercover watchmen were not unheard of, especially for a high profile event like this. “I was hopin’ to do some… after hours shoppin’, if ye catch me drift.”

I shook my head. “Not a good bet,” I said, sipping my ale. I waited for him to ask.

“And why's that then?” he said, his voice betraying the irritation.

“Because there's a fresh set of watchmen set to patrol the area all night,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I overheard the merchants talking about it in the market.”

Darius stared for a second, then smiled. “Yer a professional, then.”

“I can make a living,” I said.

“Well then,” he said, “whaddya say we go at it this evenin’? Maybe the two o’ us can see things that jus’ one of us can't?”

This is what I had wanted, that extra support to be able to make the trip here worthwhile. But I didn't let on. “What's in it for me?”

Darius looked offended. “The chance ta score, that's what. Yer tellin’ me yer gonna pull it off on yer own? Not a chance! Or ye wouldn't be in here nursin’ yer pride like me.”

I smiled, because that was exactly what I was doing. That's what he was doing as well. Great minds think alike, they say. I set my half-empty glass down pointedly. “Buy me another, and you've got a deal.”

Darius grinned, and waved the bartender over. “Another pint for me new partner, here.”

Partner.

\--- --- ---

It worked like magic. Darius and I went down to scope out the marketplace, to find our marks. He had an eye for value--the vendors that likely had the most treasure hidden away. He could tell what was actually valuable, and what the merchants were just peddling as such, trying to make a profit. I had an eye for opportunity-- which vendors were more careless with their wares, which had less security, which had blind spots. We made a great team, I had to admit. Together, we relieved the tired, distracted merchants of thousands of leaves in merchandise. And Darius knew a man who would buy it. We carted our wares across town, made some deals in a shady corner of the port as the sun set over the ocean, and we walked away with more coin than I had ever held at one time. I was riding high, my pockets full, my confidence soaring.

“Did damn well fer ourselves, didn't we?” Darius laughed, and clapped a hand around my shoulders. “Why don't we go git ourselves a drink or three ta celebrate?”

After so much time on my own, or hanging out with guys who didn't give a shit about me beyond a quick fuck, it felt good to be appreciated. I laughed. “Where's the nearest tavern?”

We rolled in and ordered round after round of drinks. This was when we finally remembered each other--so similar to our first victory, all those years ago. Neither one of us had realized until then.

“Got ta admit, I been wonderin’ what happened to ye,” Darius said. “Ye had some skill. Ye still do.” He raised his glass in a toast, about the third one he had made that night.

“Well, it's nice to be appreciated,” I said, clanging my glass on his.

“Didn't work out then, but maybe this time…” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, “we could do real well together. If we go inta business together, I mean. I got some leads, and ye got some skills.”

I was ready to make excuses and say no. I had been on my own so long, and it had been okay for me so far. But everything had gone so well. We worked perfectly together. When we were working the market, there were so many times that I didn't even need to signal to him. I just made eye contact, and he knew, and he did exactly what needed to be done. I couldn't help but think of how much more I could get with four hands instead of two.

“Yeah,” I said cautiously. “Yeah, we could try that.”

Darius broke into a grin. “Glad ta hear it, partner!”

I felt the warmth rise within me. It was so different. I had felt so alone, for so long.

I don't remember the details much from the bar. But eventually, there were some guys--sailors, I think, who were getting rowdy and singing. They started swaying with their song, and one pushed into Darius. He pushed back. The sailor went crashing into the table in front of him, spilling the drinks over his friends. They turned, practically steaming in anger. I would have tried to hide under the table if I had reacted fast enough. But Darius started shouting at another group of soggy sailors, cussing them out for their rudeness. The man he pushed turned his anger towards the other sailors, who were now hurling curses back at Darius. It didn't take much for them to come to blows, Darius ducked out of the center of the brawl, grabbing my arm, and pulled us out of the bar. 

We bowed out of there as the melee continued behind us. Neither one of us had been caught up in it. We both broke out in laughter. I thought it was hilarious.

Darius nudged me in the side. “There's a brothel two streets over. What ye say we go git ourselves a piece?” 

“You can go ahead,” I said. “Not my scene.”

“What are ye, a faggot?”

I remembered his words from our first meeting. They had come back as soon as I had recognized him. But I wasn't going to try to lie. I knew that answering would turn him against me, maybe even make him hostile, but he was drunker than I was, and I was very aware of the dagger at my waist. Maybe time had tempered him a little.

“Yeah,” I said, more casually than the situation called for.

Darius slowed, giving me a hard look. I steeled myself for a quick getaway, but he just looked confused. “Yer shittin’ me. Really?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, trying to settle the adrenaline rushing through me. “If that's a problem, nobody's making you hang out with me.”

Darius considered. “So ye like suckin' dick,” he said, trying to work it through his whiskey-drenched brain.

“Yeah,” I said. I smiled, to mess with him a bit. “You ever try it?” 

Darius made a face. “Course not!”

“Then don't knock it till you've tried it.” 

He shrugged it off, his face confused, but calm.

I was giddy. If he could accept me, we could make this work. Nothing could stop us.

“Ye got like, a type?”

This made me pause. I wasn't expecting this kind of reaction. Was he messing with me, now?

I just shrugged. “Not really. Most guys I've been with are older than me. Not like, old, old. Helps if they're good looking, but…”

Darius spoke quietly. “Ye wanna suck my dick?” 

This caught me completely off guard. He was clearly fucking with me. I stopped walking, and just waited for the laughter I knew was coming. But it never did.

“I mean, I know me mug ain't pretty or nothin’, but ye won't need ta look at it, will ye?”

“You're serious,” I said, trying to make sense of two revelations at the same time. One, he wasn't going to stomp off, disgusted, or try to beat me up, or even make fun of me. Two, I was... kind of... attracted to him. He wasn't wrong about his face, but he had a great body, and we were already getting along so well together. And he made me feel appreciated I looked at the ground while I searched for words, then met his gaze again.

“Yeah, kind of,” I said.

Darius grinned. “Good, ‘cause I'm hornier than ‘ell. Let's go.”

We found an inn. After all, we had money to burn. I remember the oil lamp burning on the table, and the whole room was shadowy and orange. Surreal. I watched Darius lock the door behind us, check it, unlock it, then re-lock it. I wondered how drunk he was. I had matched him drink for drink, and he was much taller.

“We don't have to,” I said, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Darius turned to me. “No. I want--” he stopped himself. “I want some o’ that whiskey ye got.”

I had noticed where he had stopped himself. I had to hide my smile. I pulled my flask out from my tunic, and Darius grabbed it, drinking eagerly. I needed a distraction, so I just bent to untie my boots. I was kicking them off when Darius returned the flask, and mechanically, I took a swig.

Darius pulled off his cloak, and tossed it on the bed. He started pulling at his belt. “Where, uh… where ye want this?”

The floor was growing unsteady beneath me. I just nodded to a chair. I felt like I needed to keep moving, or the emotion would catch up with me. I unwrapped my scarf, tossing it onto the floor near my boots. I was, however, really enjoying Darius’ veiled nervousness. For such a big, boisterous personality, he was acting adorably awkward. I pulled off my tunic as Darius sat, tugging his trousers down to reveal his arousal at half-mast. I bit my lip, trying not to show any kind of reaction.

“So, uh…” Darius said, but I just shook my head. I didn't want his words. I walked over, and sank to my knees between Darius' legs.

“Don't say anything,” I told him. “Pretend I'm a girl if it makes you feel better.” I caught Darius’ eyes, swimming with drunkeness, nervousness, and excitement. Then I looked downwards to Darius’ lap.

I closed my fingers around Darius’ cock, feeling it stiffen at the touch. He had one of those cocks that tapered, the base thick under my fingers, slimming to a more reasonable size near the tip. I could feel my heartbeat quickening. Until we were here, and the clothes started coming off, and I was staring at a cock, I hadn't even thought about how much I wanted this. It had been a while. I touched my tongue to the head of his cock, licking one side, then the other, then circled around the most sensitive area just under the tip. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to tease him.

I heard a frustrated groan and a shudder shook through Darius’ body. I loved the power I could have over someone else's pleasure. I took the length between my lips, pushing it to the back of my throat. I wondered if I could fit the whole thing. 

“Shite, that's good,” Darius moaned. He ran his hand through my hair, settling his fingers at the base of my neck, rocking his hips. Darius thrust forward, burying himself in my throat. I had my face pressed against the little red hairs at the base of his cock. It was too much, too quick, and I gagged and pulled back. A strand of saliva fell down my chin. Darius still held the back of my head, and he just slid his wet cock along my cheek. How he could go from nervous to dominating in just that little time frame… but he was into it. I was into it. I was ready to let him go as far as he wanted to go.

“You're too big,” I told him, knowing full well how that would stroke his ego.

“Yer a godsdamned slut, ain't ye?” Darius growled, a grin on his face. No one had called me that before, and it caught me a little off guard.

I just kept my hand moving over his cock, still glistening with my spit. “You want me to stop?”

“Gods no,” Darius said, and pushed back into my mouth. I wasn't about to argue.

I couldn't help looking up at him, though. He was slumped back in the chair, his head tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut. The hand that wasn't gripping the hair at the base of my neck was snaked up under his own shirt. I followed his hand with my own. When I touched his hand, he looked at me in surprise, but then took it and traced it over the muscles and scars on his chest. I wanted to feel every inch of him. I wanted to know him.

I could feel the tightening in Darius' thighs, and sucked harder, knowing he was close to the edge. Darius’ body shuddered as he came. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell!”

Before I could react, he pushed me backwards. I grabbed the outside of his thighs to steady myself, and I felt the hot streak of his come on my cheek. I leaned back on my heels, watching him steady his breathing. I didn't clean off my face. I wanted him to see it. He did, and he grinned.

“Sorry,” he said, though I knew he wasn't. “Guess I shoulda warned ye.”

I kept my eyes locked on his. Deliberately, I wiped his come from my cheek with two fingers, then slid those to fingers into my mouth. Where did this become too much for him? I was going to push it, because honestly, I wanted all of it. But he was grinning, despite his reservations.

“That's fuckin’ hot,” he said, before he could catch himself. He broke his eyes away, and talked to his boot. “Ye really like this? Suckin’ dick?”

I didn't answer him. He wasn't going to listen to words and explanations anyway. Instead, I unlaced my pants. I did it slowly, watching him, to make sure he was watching me. I slid the cloth down to my knees--all I could manage, kneeling on the floor--so he could get a good look. I had been hard since he had sat in that chair. I watched his eyes move to my cock, and I ignored the flush of heat I felt as he looked me over. As he watched, I started touching myself, waiting for his reaction.

He kept looking from my face to my cock. Finally, he licked his lips, and nodded.

“Take yer shirt off,” he said, a commanding authority in his voice that hit me deep. Before I could yank my shirt off, he was down on the floor next to me, doing it for me. He looked me over--I was as good as naked in front of him. I'm pretty sure it made me harder.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't handle looking at him looking at me any more. His eyes were so… hungry. I kept working myself with my hand, but slowly. I didn't want to finish. I wanted this moment. I could feel the heat of Darius body, so close to me. He put his hand on my stomach, and I shivered. His hand moved up my chest, not gentle, but urgent. His hand spread across my chest, his fingers brushing against my nipples, which have always been sensitive. I jerked my shoulders a bit in reaction to the touch, and he responded with a pinch. I felt a tiny moan come out of my throat. Cautiously, I opened one eye to gauge Darius’ reaction. His face was flushed red, and he was grinning at me.

His fingers were on my chin, now. There was still a drop of his come there, and he wiped it up with a finger, and slid it across my mouth. I didn't even think. I automatically parted my lips, and he stuck two of his fingers inside. I had abandoned any sense of decency a long time ago. I sucked on his fingers, just like I had sucked on his cock. I caught a glimpse of him below the waist, his pants still undone, pulled down to his mid-thigh. He was getting hard again.

“Gods, yer a slut,” Darius said, his voice breathy. He was losing himself, too. He couldn't take his eyes off me.

I pulled away from his fingers. I hadn't imagined it going this far, but dammit, I wanted it now. I tried to steady my voice, tried to harden my tone so it still might seem like I was in control of myself. 

“You want to fuck me, don't you?”

Darius’ mouth opened, but no words came out. But his body couldn't lie. I reached out for his obvious arousal, closing my fingers around it. 

“I'm pretty sure you want to fuck me.”

He could only grin, and nod.

I stood up, letting my pants fall to the floor, leaving me completely naked. I stepped out of them, and moved towards the bed. Then, my power move-- I stopped, and looked back at him over my shoulder, expectantly.

He was behind me before I knew it. He had crazy speed. He grabbed my waist and pushed on my shoulder, and I was bent over the edge of the bed. I sank my hands and knees into the mattress, lifting my hips for him. I could hear his clothes hitting the floor, and then his hands were on my ass, spreading me open.

“Do I jus--” he asked, his awkwardness returning. I gave him an overly exasperated sigh. It did always seem to be my job to teach guys how to do this right.

I licked my fingers, leaving as much wetness as I could on them, and reached backwards, sliding them inside. “Fingers first,” I told him, and he brushed my hand out of the way to put his own inside of me. Damn, did I want his cock. I was ready to just shout at him to get it in, fuck the pain, I'd get over it. The heat of his body leaning over me, the insistence of his fingers stretching me… I felt like I was shaking from anticipation and want. But I swallowed the yearning. Tinted my voice to be cool and calm.

“You want it?” I asked him, teasing, satisfied with how the words came out.

Darius didn't answer, though. I felt him slide his fingers out of me, then felt the head of his cock pressing against me. He circled it around, making my nerves go crazy. I could have screamed. 

As I was about to say something, he thrust inside me, and my words turned into a shout of surprise, of shock, of satisfaction. It was rough, and hard, but it was exactly what I wanted. I bit my lip as he slammed into me. I was shaking, but he held tight to my hips. I had to bury my face in the blankets to try to muffle my voice--I had completely lost control over the sounds coming from my throat with every thrust. I reached for myself, stroking to match the quick rhythm of Darius’ movements as he fucked me. 

One of his hands slid over my back, up around my neck. I felt his fingers close around my throat, and there were two quick thoughts. First: what the fuck, is he choking me? And second: fuck yes, I don't care what he does as long as he doesn't stop. I could breathe, but I had to fight for every gasp of air. My head swam. I couldn't feel any part of my body except my cock, my ass, and Darius inside of me.

“Harder,” I managed to gasp.

“Slut,” Darius said, slapping my ass hard enough that it stung-- but only for a hot second, before the pleasure took over. He crushed into me, going deeper, and rougher, and faster. I couldn't tell pleasure from pain any more. The lack of air made my mind burst with stars. It felt like lightning. Pleasure zapped through me, my entire body shaking as I came. As I did, Darius pulled his hand from my throat, and the sensations came rolling back in a more intense release than I had ever felt before. I cried out into the blanket below my face, glad it was there to muffle the sound. My muscles failed me as the orgasm rolled through, and I collapsed onto the bed, the blanket beneath my stomach damp with my own come.

Darius wasn't done. He kept at it, hard, fucking me into the bed. I couldn't have moved even if I wanted to. Even if I could have. 

I gripped the blanket below me as he gave three long, deep strokes, grunting right above my ear as he came again, this time leaving his come in my ass instead of on my face. He stayed in me for a while, breathing hard, his body angled over my back. His arms-- those thick biceps and strong forearms-- were pinning me in, one on either side of me. His warm body leaned on me, pressing me into the bed. I leaned over as best I could, and kissed his nearby wrist.

Suddenly, he was up. “The fuck is that?”

I turned slowly, confused. He was standing, naked, angry. I tried to voice a question, but it wasn't really working.

“Don't fuckin’ kiss me,” he said. “I ain't no fairy.”

I tried to sit up, but could only prop myself up on my elbows. “The hell are you on about? We just--”

“I know what we just fuckin’ did,” Darius spat. “Doesn't make me a fag.”

I could have laughed, if I hadn’t been so confused. “I mean--”

“No. Shut up,” he snapped, and hurriedly started dressing. “There's a big fuckin’ difference. I ain't kissin’ no guys, or holdin’ yer damn hand, or any o’ that shite. I let ya suck me dick. That's different.”

I just watched his rage, trying to figure it out. 

“Ye hear me?” he stomped towards me, and I recoiled a bit further onto the bed, away from him. He stopped, and I shrugged.

“Whatever you say,” I told him.

“Yeah.” He was fully dressed now. He looked at me, and I couldn't read his expression. Was there regret in there? Fear...of himself? Definitely anger. He turned towards the door.

As he strode out of the inn room, I fought the urge to ask him where he was going, and if he was coming back. And if we were still partners. But I held my tongue, and the door slammed shut behind him.

I heard the voice inside me-- the survival instinct, the one that had kept me alive so far-- telling me I needed to leave. Cut my losses, get out of town, don't look back. But another part of me-- the part that ached from sleeping out on the sands for the past week-- argued that I was in a perfectly good bed, in an inn room that was already paid for, and how dare I let that go to waste? So I reached for my dagger that I had dropped with my pants, and I stuck it under the pillow. Then I pulled the blankets over me, and slept facing the door, one hand on the hilt of my blade.

In the morning, the door banged open, and I sat up, dagger pointed towards the entrance, ready to lunge. Darius stood there, staring at me. He seemed to have worked out his rage, and now he just looked tired. I lowered the blade.

“I didn't think you were coming back,” I said.

“I didn't think I was comin’ back neither,” he said. “But damned if ye ain't one o’ the best tea leaves I’ve seen. I can't in good faith pass up all o’ them profits I was imaginin’ last night. So yer comin’ with me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don't get a choice in this?”

He laughed. “Ye don't wanna give up that coin neither!” He was right, of course, but I didn't let him see that.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good on ye, partner” he said, grinning. 

Partner.

His smile was contagious. But once I was smiling, his was fading. “But don't try to pull any o’ that…” he waved hand, “raunchy shite. Yer tryin’ to trap me, and I don't ‘preciate it.”

“I'm not trying to do anything,” I said. “If I remember, you're the one who brought it up in the first place.”

Darius growled. “The ‘ell are you still in bed for, anyway! We got places ta be!”

“Well,” I hesitated, but then shrugged and threw back the covers. My clothes were still all over the floor from the night before. I knew he was looking at my naked body, but I didn't meet his eyes.

“Godsdamnit!” he shouted, and stomped out the door. I couldn't help but laugh.

\--- --- ---

Darius often threatened to leave, or to leave me behind, but he didn't… except once. But before that, we got along well. 

He would always come on to me when he was horny. We'd fuck, and then he'd have some kind of guilt or shame or something take over, and he'd rage at himself and at me for ‘tricking’ him, even though he was always the one who started it. I stopped caring. The thieving was good. We both liked to drink, we both had a similar sense of humor, and the sex was good, even if he got weird about it after he came.

But I couldn't initiate it. I tried once, and got punched in the face. Asshole broke my nose, and even though he apologized later, I figured we were done with that aspect of our partnership. Except that same night, sleeping by our campfire, I woke up to him straddling me, trying to get my pants off. I turned to him, my face still swelling under my black eyes.

“You can't say no with your fist and then expect to get it later,” I snapped, and tried to push him off of me. He was nearly a foot taller, and had about fifty pounds more bulk, so this wasn't the easiest thing to do.

Darius just growled at me, grabbed my arms and pinned me to the ground beneath him. “Yer lucky I don't break somethin’ else on ye.”

I tried to determine if this was an actual threat or not. Honestly, I couldn't tell. He was always laughing and joking with me--like I said, we had fun-- but when he slipped into this rage, he was like a completely different person. While I was trying to figure it out, he was tugging at my clothes. 

“Darius,” I said, trying to make my voice stern. “Stop. I want to sleep.”

“That's too damn bad,” he said. He hit me again. It was an open hand, not a closed fist, but across my bruised face, it hurt like hell. I was distracted by the pain, and before I could do much of anything, I was naked from the waist down, on my belly in the dirt. 

I gave up any resistance, and just let him spread my legs apart, lift me up by my waist. He spit on me, rubbing the warm wet saliva over the hole he wanted badly enough to fight me for, sliding his fingers in, spreading it open to make way for his cock. I felt little else but the throbbing of my face before he pushed into me. But soon he was hitting that sweet spot, and he had slipped his hand around front, and I had closed his fingers over my cock, and the pain was numbed by pleasure. Gods damn him, he knew how to make me come hard. When we were done, he would get up off me and go lay down on his side of the fire, without a word spoken.

And that's pretty much how it went, for just over two years, while we made our way around the continent, taking whatever we wanted and riding high on our successes. I couldn't talk about the other side of our partnership without starting up his rage, so I didn't. He didn't bring it up. Whenever we finished-- well, whenever he finished, I had to time mine to happen before, or I had to finish myself off-- he would go away to sleep on his own. Never once did we sleep in the same bed. Never once did we just lie together afterwards, even for five minutes. Never once did we kiss. But somehow, I had myself convinced that this was a relationship worth treasuring. I had myself convinced that he cared about me, his pride just wouldn't let him admit it. I thought we trusted each other.

Then he sold me out. He planned this job on the Ciannos, which I thought was weird, since we had ripped them off a few months before, and they were known to be vengeful. But he said he had a good lead, and like a moron, I trusted him. He had us break in to their hideout, a row of buildings overlooking a cliff. We climbed across the rooftops in the dead of night, but the Ciannos were waiting. I was ready to fight, with him at my side, but this had been part of his plan.

He turned his blade towards me. Told me how much they hated me. Explained how he was doing this in front of them to prove his loyalty to then. Marveled at the rewards he would get for disposing of me. I didn't hear most of the details, because I was overwhelmed by his betrayal. He stepped towards me, his blade drawn.

I just stared at him, wide-eyed like an idiot. “I thought we were partners,” I said, like some sort of jackass. “I thought I could trust you.”

“Ye should know me better than that,” he said, and sunk the blade into my side. I didn't even feel it until later. My mind was too busy with shock and denial. 

“So long, partner,” he said, and he gave me a shove. 

Partner.

I couldn't catch myself, and I tumbled off the roof. 

I remember the mad scramble, trying to grab anything I could to keep from falling down the canyon. I missed the edges of the buildings, the tree roots, the cutting stone ledges. I know that the cliff slanted, and I was eventually rolling more than falling. I remember coming to a stop, but even though my body had stopped moving, my mind kept rolling. I blacked out. Woke up as a prisoner to an apothecary, who fixed up my body just enough to turn me into a prisoner to the local law enforcement. They were bankrolled by the Ciannos. I was quickly convicted and sentenced, left with about three days to rot in a cell before my early morning date with the hangman.

Those were the longest three days of my life, waiting for the end, but the nights were even longer. I kept expecting Cianno thugs to break into my cell and do me in before the noose could. And I kept thinking about Darius. I kept going over everything in my mind, about what a fool I was to trust him. I blamed myself. I should have known better. And I sat in a jail cell, waiting to die, and felt it was what I deserved.

I totally would have died then, too-- another public execution to warn the masses about violating the law-- if not for an idiotically naive cleric. They sent him to me on the last night I was supposed to have in this world, sort of a confess your sins before Aelfric's final judgement, I guess. I would have needed far longer than just one night to confess all of mine. But he was so earnest and trusting, he came right into the cell. Waved the guards away when I asked for privacy. I think real tears may have been in my eyes when I pretended to want to “make things right with the gods.” Came right up to kneel beside me as I pretended to learn to pray. He had no idea. 

I suppose they found him the next morning, tied and gagged in his underclothes my cell, when they came to fetch me for the gallows. But by then, I was miles away, sort of enjoying the respect strangers gave me for simply wearing cleric's robes. 

Anyway, it's funny how all these memories can come back to you in an instant. Everything you thought you had forgotten, or tried to drink away, or hoped you had gotten over… it all comes back when you see a face you both never wanted and desperately wanted to see just one more time. 

_And there he was._

"Darius." 

_He heard me, and he turned._


	13. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion confronts Darius. And Gareth.

Chapter 12- Reunion 

_Of course it's him. It had to be him. I can't catch a Godsdamn break._

“Darius,” Therion spat the name like a curse.

Darius turned. The devilish smile spread across his face as recognition seeped in.

“Therion,” he said, amused. “I thought I saw ye, though the stage was far off. Honestly expected ye ta be a lot more … dead.” The emerald Dragonstone was pinched between Darius’ fingers. “But I did see ye up there. Givin’ up thievin’ for whorin’?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Can't say I'm all that surprised.”

Therion was suddenly reminded of his dancer's outfit, but he didn't have room in his thoughts for embarrassment. 

“Uh, boss?” One of Darius’ cronies interrupted their stare. “We still robbin’ this place?”

Darius turned to his lackey, and Therion could see the anger in his face. It was subtle, but because of their time together, Therion could recognize it instantly. 

“The ‘ell are ye waitin’ fer!” Darius bellowed. “Ger yer asses in there! Take whatever's not tied down! See what ye can get from them boozed-up rich folk!”

“Yes, boss!” The thief snapped into action, and the group that was waiting scattered-- some heading out to where the wares were stored, others into the central hall where the music was still playing, their blades drawn.

Darius stepped forward, running his eyes over his former partner. He pointed to Therion's bare side. “Is that the wee cut I gave ye?” He whistled. “Must've hurt, that’un.”

“But I’m still alive, aren't I?” Therion scowled. He bent to draw his dagger from his calf. “I'm taking that Dragonstone from you.”

The music from the hall cut off suddenly, to be replaced by screams and shouts. _Cyrus and Primrose…_ Therion thought, but his eyes never flickered away from Darius.

Darius frowned. “That's what this is about?” A slow smile of realization spread over him. “Yer the one Gareth was tailin’.” Darius laughed. “He sent me men in get it from ye. He told me how they got it from ye.” He broke out in laugher.

Therion felt the heat rush to his face, and fought to maintain his composure. The laugh was so familiar. It hurt.

“You're holding it,” Therion said, eyeing the gem. “So you know what it does to a person.”

Darius’ face hardened. “Oh, aye. I know.” He closed his fist around it. “And it affects everyone different.” He stared the other thief down. Therion tried his best to read Darius’ changed expression, but he couldn't figure it out. 

Footsteps and shouts approached from the direction of the main hall. A half dozen of Darius’ men were retreating, their arms full of loot.

Darius growled. “Yer goin’ the wrong way, idiots!” 

“They're fightin’ back!” One of the thieves yelled. “We came in ta scare ‘em, and it was workin’, ‘till this sorcerer starts flingin’ lightnin’ bolts everywhere, and the whole place turns on us!”

Darius’ rage simmered. “We got the stone, anyhow. Get on outta ‘ere.” Darius motioned. “‘Cept the two of ye.” He took the treasures from the two thieves. “And Gareth,” he nodded to a purple-hooded thief. “Stay behind and take care ‘o this… unfinished business.” He narrowed his eyes on Therion, who tensed.

“Of course,” the purple-hooded thief said, drawing a pair of daggers and positioning himself between the two former partners in crime.

Darius flashed a grin at Therion. “Nice to see yer little show. That's how I'll be rememberin’ ye.” While Therion burned red, Darius ducked down the passageway to the exit, his men following him.

The three thieves, Gareth in the middle, spread out to block Therion's path. He was having his doubts about taking on the whole group, but he was too pissed off to think about backing down.

Gareth snarled at him. “End of the line.”

Therion just flashed a smile. “I'm ready, are you?”

Gareth yelled and charged forward, the other two thieves flanking him. Therion had a full moment to contemplate the danger his arrogance had gotten him into before lightning arced along the cavern ceiling, striking all three men. Therion took the opportunity to sink his dagger into the closest one, on his right.

Cyrus, hand raised to cast another spell, was behind him in a heartbeat. “Allow me,” he said, nodding to Therion. “Nothing will quiet the storm!” he shouted at the thieves, and another burst of lightning flashed from his fingertips.

Therion sprang forward, ducking under a slash from Gareth, returning with a swipe of his own. He was past him, now, with an open path to follow Darius. He looked to Cyrus. “The stone!?” he yelled, torn between staying and pursuing.

Cyrus caught his gaze, the intensity burning in his eyes. “Go!” he yelled to Therion. “I can handle this riffraff.” The scholar smiled wide. “My focus is unparalleled!”

Therion resheathed his dagger at his waist, and took off running after his former partner.

Darius had always been fast on his feet, and when he felt confident that he had escaped, he most likely would have slowed. And Therion, at a full sprint, was faster. He stole down the hallway, dodging crates and panicked, drunken guards. He didn't see any of the masked merchants or buyers-- there must have been some back exit. He saw some vendor's weapons cache and snatched up a short sword as he passed. He jumped over a stack of chests, closing in on Darius. His former partner saw him just as Therion leapt out at him, brandishing the sword. Darius skidded to a stop, reaching for his own weapon.

“I don't care about anything else you're lifting.” Therion’s fingers tensed around the sword hilt. “But I need that stone.”

“Then I'll send me men onward.” Darius squared up. “An’ we'll finish what I didn't before.” He nodded to his thieves, who ran out with the treasure. 

Therion ignored them, focused on Darius, trying to fight the flood of emotion and memory seething at the back of his mind. “I'll make this quick.”

Darius lunged at him, and Therion dodged to the side, swinging the sword at his former partner. Darius dropped into a roll, the blade missing him entirely. He was up in his feet, charging at Therion, who was able to parry the thrust of his dagger, but not the kick to his stomach. Therion fell backwards, scrambling to his feet, backing away from Darius.

“Just give me the stone, Darius,” Therion growled. “Neither one of us has to get hurt.”

Darius straightened. “This stone?” He pulled it out of his pocket. The emerald caught the tiniest glint of light from the wall torches. Therion relaxed a bit, staring at the gem. Darius watched his former partner's eyes. “Why ye want it so bad? We've stolen more valuable stuff. Stuff that don't be cursed to warp men's minds.” He frowned at Therion. “Or is that it, then? Not happy ta just fuck with me own mind, ye got ta do it ta everyone?”

“It's not for me,” Therion spat. “And I never--”

“Don't feed me yer bullshite,” Darius said. “It don't matter now. Drop yer sword.”

“Look, I don't have to explain--”

“He said to drop your sword.” The voice was low, and loud, right at Therion's ear. A dagger gleamed in his peripheral vision, held to his neck. A body pressed up behind him, twisting his free arm behind his back. Theion dropped his sword.

Darius was grinning as he stepped forward, closing the gap. He kicked the sword out of Therion's reach, and pulled the dagger from Therion's waist, tossing it aside. “Great job, as always, Gareth. Them troublemakers taken care of?” Darius yanked the scarf from Therion's waist and flung it aside, then felt around his hips, searching for more hidden weapons. 

“Some of our men are fighting some more of the merchant's guards out there,” The voice at Therion's ear responded, as Darius felt around Therion's calves for any blades.“I thought you might need me, Lord Darius.”

Despite the perilous situation, Therion couldn't help but laugh. Darius shot upright and glared at him, and Gareth twisted his arm harder.

“Sorry,” Therion tried to swallow the laugh. “ _Lord Darius._.” He laughed again. “Sorry. Didn't mean to.” He nodded his head as much as he dared to the side where Gareth spoke in his ear. “This your new partner, then?” 

“Partner.” Darius scoffed, stepping back. “Gareth works for me. An’ he knows better than te piss me off.”

Therion narrowed his eyes at Darius. “But you're fucking him, though, right?”

Darius met his eyes with a hard glare. 

A slow grin spread across Therion's face. “Wasn't sure if you were still pretending to be straight.”

The rage resurfaced, and Darius punched him in the gut. Gareth held his arm too tightly for him to double over, so he just groaned in pain.

“Do you know him? Lord Darius?” Gareth asked.

Therion snorted, regaining his composure. Then he spoke over his shoulder to Gareth. “If you mean that he knows what my dick tastes like, then yeah, we know each other.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Darius snapped, and landed a backhanded blow across Therion's face. “Say another word an’ Gareth will cut yer Godsdamned tongue out.”

Therion hardened his look at Darius, but said nothing.

Darius stepped in close, a breath from Therion. “Yer after these same stones as me. So ye know the effect they have on people.” He withdrew the emerald from his pocket, holding it up between their faces. “Ye can feel it, can't ye?” 

Therion could, but he wasn't about to admit it.

“The kinda thing that drives ye mad.” His hand moved, and he pressed the emerald against Therion's mouth. He dragged it along the thief’s lower lip, slowly, his eyes never moving from Therion’s. Darius’ voice had dropped to a graveley whisper. “Kinda thing that makes ye… _want_.”

Therion shivered involuntarily. Gareth's grip tightened on his arn. He could feel the stone working at him again. His veins were pulsing, his breath catching in his throat. And with Darius in front of him, the ghostly memories of when they had been together were echoing through his nerves. His lip tingled from the emerald's touch. It ached.

Darius spoke. “Take off yer pants.”

Therion had only the slightest flicker in his eyes.

“I said take em off, damnit!”

Gareth dropped his arm, and gave him a little shove in the back, and Therion's fingers found the ties. He tried to keep his hands steady as he tugged at the strings. He didn't want Darius to see any evidence of his emotions. But he knew the danger very well. 

He slid the fabric down his hips, having to wiggle a bit to get the tight cloth over his rear. The corner of Darius’ mouth twitched at this. He bent to the side, avoiding Gareth's dagger, as he unhooked the sandal straps and stepped out of his trousers. He stood, revealing the very physical effect the emerald-- _or Darius_ \--was having on him.

Darius looked down at Therion's straining erection, a growl in his throat. “Fuckin’ slut,” he muttered. 

He grabbed Therion's hair, his fingers sinking deep into the pale locks and snagging a firm hold. Therion yelled at the pain and surprise as Darius wrenched him to the side, flinging him to the ground. He felt some of the strands rip free from his skull. He caught himself on his hands and one knee. Eyes watering with pain, Therion looked up at Darius looming over him, unbuckling his belt. Gareth was grinning, blade still angled to strike.

“Wait, I--” Therion tried to climb to his feet, only to feel Darius’ kick connect with his side, sending him to the ground again.

“Get ‘is arms,” Darius ordered, and Gareth had grabbed Therion's wrists, and kneeled on his elbows. 

Suddenly, Darius was on him, pushing him to the ground under his weight. He had grabbed Therion's knees and pressed them backwards to his shoulders. Therion's bare ass lifted up against Darius’ body, leaving him wedged in place.

Darius grinned, bringing out the emerald again. “I get this thing fuckin’ with me mind, then yer up on that stage fuckin’ with me mind…” He rolled the stone down Therion's chest, pressing it into his belly button. It rolled down, settling just under his sternum, caught were Darius had bent him over himself. The gem clouded any thoughts Therion had of fighting the two thieves off of him. “I think maybe I'll ‘ave to do some fuckin’ with ye myself.”

Darius squeezed the sides of Therion's jaw, forcing his mouth open. He didn't resist much as Darius stuck his fingers between Therion's lips. He sucked obediently, his eyes never leaving Darius’ face, searching out the conflict of emotion there. He was looking for that little piece of what he had always been looking for… some little piece of actual affection. He had always convinced himself that he could find it, before, but now, after the betrayal, he wasn't so sure.

Darius removed his wet fingers from Therion's mouth, leaning back. Gareth had grabbed Therion's ankles, leaving him bent in half, immobilized, spread apart, utterly exposed. Darius ran his hand along the curve of Therion's rear, prodding his fingertips into his opening. Therion stifled his groan as Darius pressed roughly inside of him. 

“Keep ‘im quiet,” Darius growled to his new partner. “He won't bite ye.” He narrowed his eyes at Therion. “The stone's got ‘im. Turned ‘im into the slut he is.”

Therion tried to give voice to a protest, but it was caught up in a cry as Darius’ cock impaled him. He felt his heart in his throat in the surge of pain. Darius laughed with sadistic satisfaction, watching Therion struggle beneath him. Every rough thrust shook Therion's entire body. Eventually, his muscles started to relax, and the pain lessened, but not before Darius had fucked him raw.

Gareth had maneuvered himself so that he was still kneeling on Therion's arms, but could press the tip of his stiffening length into Therion's mouth. He pushed forward, his balls resting on Therion's face. Therion felt the anger within him trying to rise, but it kept fizzling out, suffocated by the haze the stone created, and the sheer incapacity of his body. He was pinned beneath the weight of the two other thieves, helpless as they thrust into his throat and ass.

Darius bent over him, hand on his neck. Gareth shifted to the side. Therion could see him with one eye as Gareth fucked his throat. Darius was grinning. 

“This is why the stone makes ye like this,” Darius said. “It brings out yer true self. And ye just like someone ta use ye. Ta treat ye like shite. So that way ye feel like yer worth somethin'.”

Darius’ hands slid down Therion's chest, tearing the fabric of his shirt open. His fingers closed around Therion's nipples, twisting until Therion's eyes watered. But he any noise he made was stifled by Gareth's length pressing in and out of his mouth.

Darius shifted his angle, moving faster, and Therion felt the emerald burn against the skin on his abdomen where it still lay. He felt the desire building again, despite the pain and humiliation. This was the reason he had always let Darius have his way with him-- something about the size, or shape, or length, or all three-- could touch Therion in just the right place inside to build that sensation. He sighed around the cock in his mouth as the pleasure overtook the pain. 

Gareth groaned audibly above Therion, digging his fingers into Therion's calves. He pulled back as he came, spilling his hot seed onto Therion's cheek and chin. Therion flinched, but there wasn't anywhere he could move to. Gareth let go of Therion's leg to milk the last drops out onto the other thief's lips, grinning down at the helpless body beneath him. Darius was watching, too, and he grunted as he thrust harder. Therion's body shook with every movement, but he was still pinned tightly between the two thieves’ bodies.

Gareth leaned back, watching Darius fuck Therion, idly massaging his own sensitive parts. Between the alternating grimaces of pain and waves of pleasure, Therion saw something in Gareth's face. His face betrayed a thinly veiled jealousy. Darius ignored his new partner entirely, watching Therion's cum-spattered features twist with sensation, and Gareth was searching for a moment of eye contact that Darius would never give him. Gareth's look shifted angrily down to Therion. He could only return the look with a cheeky smirk, despite the heat burning through his nerves, and the quickness of his breathing.

Snarling, Gareth clamped his hand around Therion's neck, choking off his air. Therion gasped and coughed, unable to move, as Darius continued to hammer into him. Therion's sensations swirled. He couldn't feel the ground under him, or the weight pinning his arms, or the throbbing pain of Darius’ assault. He could only feel the pleasure, the electricity in his nerves, to pressure building to an unmanageable head within him. His cock ached, but he couldn't reach it to relieve himself. His cry of frustrated desire was silenced in his throat under Gareth's hand. And all the while, Darius’ relentless churning within him…

Therion's cock twitched, and without a single finger pressed against it, the release came hard and intense. He was too far gone, with too little sense of himself to feel his release spurt onto his chest, his face, onto Gareth's hand on his neck. This made Gareth pull his hand away. Therion gasped for air as Darius laughed, that deep, hearty, mocking laugh.

“You Gods… damned… fucking… slut!” Darius cried, and his own climax came right after Therion's, just as it always had during their time as partners. He pulled out of Therion's body, adding his own to the mess adorning Therion's bare skin. 

Therion managed to open his eyes at the sound of Darius' voice, just in time to see the intense mix of emotions boiling behind his former partner's eyes. 

And then Darius was done with him, pulling back, standing up, the post-orgasmic anger playing like a tired old routine. Nothing had changed in the time they were apart. Gareth released him, and Therion lay naked and used on the ground, blood rushing back to his limbs, unable to move.

Darius was staring down at him with typical contempt. “This is how I'm going to leave your body.” His voice was low, and serious. Therion had expected angry cursing, but this was far more terrifying. “This is how they're going to find you. Covered in cum. Lifeless.”

Therion's eyes went wide, but his breath caught in his throat. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. His arms and legs were nothing but pins and needles. He could only stare at the pure hatred in his former lover's eyes.

“Do it once I'm outta earshot,” he commanded Gareth. “I don't wanna hear his squeals.”

Darius turned, his cloak whirling behind him. He had vanished into the distant shadows almost instantly. Therion was keenly aware of Gareth's blade at his neck. The skin just barely grazed the edge when he exhaled, and felt as if he were bleeding already. His mind was too clouded with pain, with renewed betrayal, with visceral fear for him to think straight and find a way out of this. He looked up to see Gareth glaring down at him.

“You were never good enough for him.” The hatred and jealousy was plain on Gareth's face. “I’ve heard him talk about you. Never your name, but what you did to him. You made him crazy. Made him lose sight of his ambitions, his potential for greatness. You deserve every bad thing that happens to you.” Therion's blood froze. He had heard that before. “And now you d--”

Gareth's words were interrupted as he coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. A blade had lodged itself through his neck, the red end sticking out only a sliver from his throat. As Gareth spasmed, his muscles contracted, pulling his blade under Therion's chin. He felt the warmth of his own blood rush out down his neck and chest. His still-numb hands instinctively grasped for the cut, trying to hold in the pressure.

“Oh, Gods!”

Therion was vaguely aware of Primrose, shoving Gareth's body to the side. He saw her shaking her head, her mouth frozen open in terror, stepping backwards. Therion reached for her with one hand, the other pressed to his neck. He couldn't feel any of his lower body.

“No, no, no,” she said, scrambling. “Not again. I can't lose anyone else!” Therion clutched his throat. His words came out in choked gurgles.

“Cyrus!” She screamed, and he was there. Therion saw the horror, saw the intensity in his eyes. The scholar was bleeding, too, the whole right side of his shirt dyed bright red. Cyrus knelt, pressing something to the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. A cloth. Therion’s own scarf. 

“We need to get him to a healer,” he said over his shoulder to Primrose. His voice was remarkably calm and firm. His eyes didn't move from Therion's. “I can't carry him to town. I'm not strong enough.” There was just a tinge of defeat in these words.

“There was a cart!” Prim said, and started flinging merchandise aside, cleaning off a handcart from the hall behind them. “I'll help you lift him!”

“Don't panic,” Cyrus said to Therion. As he spoke, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders, wrapping it around Therion like a blanket, covering his nakedness and the shame left on him from the other thieves. Despite his efforts, Therion couldn't make his muscles respond. They had gone stiff, twitching on their own. “That will only make your heart beat faster. You don't want that. Try to steady your breathing.” 

The scholar and the dancer lifted him together on to the handcart. Cyrus was still speaking, a deliberate, steady cadence to his words.

“I have you. We're going to get you to a healer,” Cyrus was saying. The corners of Therion's vision were beginning to darken.

“I'll run ahead.” Primrose's voice was frantic. “See if I can find an apothecary. Or a cleric.”

Cyrus nodded to her, then looked down to Therion. “Stay with me, Therion,” the thief heard him say as his consciousness faded. 

“Please, just stay with me.”


	14. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About time. Only took them 13 chapters, huh? 
> 
> ...Cyrus/Therion.

“Let your wounds be healed!” A bright, sprightly voice. A moment of clarity. A dull throbbing of pain.

“Shucks, your friend here got lucky.” A friendly, folksy voice. “Real lucky. Any deeper, or a different angle? He'd be a goner. Woulda bled out quicker than anythin’.”

“He will recover, then? You can heal him?” A familiar voice. A comforting voice.

“Shoot, ain't no problem. Phili here's already done mosta the work, I reckon. But I'll whip up somethin’ for the pain when he wakes up. And I can make an ointment that'll help it not scar so much.”

“I am eternally grateful. To the both of you, truly.”

_Why can't I open my eyes? Why can't I move?_

“Can I, uh…” The friendly voice again. “Can I ask what happened?”

“I wasn't there. I should have been, I could have prevented it, but I wasn't quick enough. Primrose, did you…?”

There was a long silence before a deeper female voice spoke.

“I don't think I should…”

“If there's anythin’ else I could treat him for, it'd be good ta know. He looks like he's been through somethin’, all right.”

“We're only here to help.” The bright voice. “Thank Aelfric we were passing through right when you needed us!”

“I wouldn't want to offend you, or Aelfric, Sister. I think that I might tell you privately, mister apothecary.”

“Please, the name's Alfyn.”

Consciousness faded for a time, as Therion's perception of the conversation lapsed.

\--- --- ---

“That there Black Market is a hotspot for thieves,” the apothecary said the last word with distaste, shaking his head. “Can't say I'm surprised some of ‘em would beat your friend up. Scoot on over there, let's clean up that cut of yours.” He nodded to a chair away from the bed for Cyrus to sit in, helping him peel away the remnants of his bloody shirt.

“We just had a run-in with an… unfortunate man in Saintsbridge,” Ophilia explained to Primrose, as she checked a bruise on the dancer's thigh. Her hands pulsed with holy curative magic.

Alfyn clicked his tongue. “Thieves. Scum of the earth.”

“It might be a bit unfair to make such sweeping generalizations.” Cyrus frowned, then winced as Alfyn touched a tender spot.

“Sorry there,” Alfyn said, pressing a wet cloth to Cyrus' wound. “You're tougher than you look. I've seen swordsmen bawlin’ like a bunch of babies after cuts like this'n. Just helped out with a whole garrison that was fightin’ lizardmen, or some such.”

“Tears don't mend wounds,” Cyrus said quietly, glancing to the bed in which Therion lay.

“Why were you in such a place, anyway?” Ophilia asked Primrose. The dancer had hurriedly tossed on a cloak over her outfit, but for the sake of healing, she had to reveal herself. She felt as though the cleric was judging her, but Ophilia was too well-mannered to say anything.

“I'm not sure if that's your business, Sister,” Prim said, with as much tact as the phrase could hold.

“We were attempting to recover some stolen property,” Cyrus said tiredly. “Unfortunately, so were the men who fought us.”

“Wait, so...stealing from some thieves?” Alfyn stepped back, hurriedly. “Y'all are thieves?”

Primrose watched the moral confusion sweep across the apothecary’s face, the pretty cleric's hands pausing over the deep purple bruise. Ophilia looked up at the dancer, a question in her eyes, and Prim tried to keep her face blank.

“The world is not written in black and white.” Cyrus narrowed his eyes at Alfyn.

The apothecary met his gaze. “There's such a thing as karma. You steal, you lie, you kill, and you get what comes to you.”

Primrose had known this was too good to be true. Danger abounds, even in the guise of those who would help. Trust no one. Only faith can be your shield. 

In the unspoken tension, Cyrus stared for half a heartbeat more, then his face broke with an unexpectedly friendly smile. His voice was surprisingly cordial. “In all the confusion, I'm not sure if I've properly introduced myself. Professor Cyrus Albright, of the Royal Academy in Atlasdam. I want to thank you sincerely for your invaluable aid.”

The tone shift was disarming, and the ease in which he switched the tension in the room… Primrose was left staring at the scholar in awe. There was far more to him than she had realized, something hidden just under the surface, and she had just caught a glimpse of it. The pretty blonde cleric kneeling at her side smiled warmly.

“We're just happy to be of service, Professor.”

The apothecary wasn't as easily distracted. He regarded Cyrus carefully, then glanced back at Therion. He shrugged. “Well, let's get that arm bandaged, then. Phili, you think you could see if the provisioner's open yet? ‘Bout sunrise, I reckon, and I could use some more essence of grape.”

“Of course!” Ophilia sprang to her feet. “The pain should be gone,” she told Primrose with a smile. “The color will disappear by this evening.”

“Thank you,” Primrose said, trying to listen in on what the apothecary was telling Cyrus as he bandaged his arm.

“You take care of yourself, man,” Alfyn whispered.

“It looks worse than it feels,” Cyrus muttered.

“That's not what I meant,” the apothecary said quietly. “A man can be led astray by the company he keeps.”

Cyrus frowned. “Here I was under the impression that you were an apothecary, not a philosopher.”

“Just saying, man, I've met a lot of folks. Someone you thought was good, and against your better judgment, they rope you into all kinds of trouble. They say there ain't no honor among thieves.”

Cyrus spoke more loudly than he had likely intended. “Thank you for your unsolicited opinion. Now, would you like to take some monetary compensation before you leave, or would you just prefer to leave?”

“Cyrus,” Primrose warned.

Alfyn just gave him a deep nod. “Don't need the coin. Reckon you will, for the inn.” He motioned to Therion. “He'll need two to five days of rest before he should be movin’. I'll send up some medicine for him.”

\--- --- ---

The whole room felt like the swirling of a ship tossed at sea. There was a weak throbbing at the back of his mind, and Therion knew he was conscious, but he couldn't will his eyes to open or his limbs to move. But he could hear.

“You saw the whole thing! And you did nothing!”

_I've never heard him so angry._

“What was I supposed to do?” Primrose, defensive. “There were two men-- one of them gigantic, by the way-- both armed, and skilled, against me? At least I stabbed one of them!”

“After the fact! So when I tell you to run ahead and back him up, that doesn't mean sit there and watch him get brutalized!”

_He knows now. What happened._

Primrose, angry. “What did you expect me to do? Not all of us can shoot icicles from our dicks, you know?”

“...You know that's not how it works, right?”

“Ugh! I can't believe you're pissed at me! I saved his life! You're welcome, you ungrateful asshole.”

“Thank you for that, but…”

“He's alive, Cyrus. That apothecary drowned him in medicine, and he's resting, but he's alive.”

_I'm alive._

Prim continued. “Relax. You're not doing yourself any favors.”

“You're right.”

“I am.”

… the room swam, and Therion lost reality. 

\--- --- ---

“We can't stay here. Helganish's men will find me eventually, unless I get out of the Sunlands.”

“We can't. Not until he's recovered.”

_Don't leave me here…_

“Cyrus, if they find me, they'll kill me.”

“I won't allow it.”

“You're not babysitting me every moment of every day. And I don't want you to. But I'm in danger.”

“I'm not abandoning him.”

_Please. Stay with me._

“Cyrus.”

“We're safe here. I… I have this under control.”

“Cyrus.”

_Cyrus…_

\--- --- ---

When Therion opened his eyes, all he could see was a shadow in an orange glow. As he could focus, he could see that the orange came from an oil lamp, and the shadow was a figure in a chair, holding a book. It took another moment before he recognized Cyrus, and yet another before he could move. The scholar noticed the movement, and looked up hopefully. The smile on his face was something Therion had no idea he wanted so badly.

“You're awake!” Cyrus said, closing the book. He set it on the bedside table as he stood.

Therion tried to speak, but only a cough came out. His hand went to his throat, covered with a bandage wrapped around the back of his head. 

“Don't move too quickly,” Cyrus said, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher. Therion sat up slowly, his body stiff and weak. The scholar gave him the water, not releasing his grip until he was sure Therion could hold it. The thief drank eagerly, suddenly conscious of his thirst. He downed the entire glass in a few gulps.

“Thanks.” Therion’s voice was gravelly. Cyrus was immediately refilling the glass for him. Therion drank the second almost as quickly.

“Last time we changed the bandage, the wound was closed,” Cyrus said. “You should be able to do without it, but I didn't want to take any chances of infection.”

Therion tugged at the bandage to loosen it, letting it fall into his lap, feeling the raised scar along the bottom of his chin, right below his jaw bone. “What does it look like?”

Cyrus had already snatched up Prim's little makeup mirror from where she had left it on a table. Therion took it to eye the red, jagged line. It cut from his chin nearly to the black leather collar that was still fastened around his neck.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days.”

“Damn.” Therion angled the mirror to inspect the scar. Sense of himself began to return. His body ached, but not any sharp pains like he would expect. His stomach growled. “Explains why I'm so hungry.”

Cyrus laughed, what Therion took as nervous laughter. “I have to admit, I was growing concerned. We should secure you some dinner.”

“Yeah, let's…” Therion began to shift the blankets aside to get up, before he realized. “I don't have any clothes on.”

“Right,” Cyrus said, motioning to the far bedside table. Therion's clothes were neatly folded on top of it. “I had them washed for you. I attempted to replace all of the items in the pockets the way I found them, but I may not have been entirely successful.”

Cyrus seemed almost giddy. Therion found it kind of adorable. He turned away from Cyrus and started pulling on his clothes, staying seated as much as he could--it was becoming a struggle to move his muscles. There were a million thoughts buzzing for his attention in the back of his mind, but he didn't have the energy to think of anything further than pulling his arms through the holes in his shirt, forcing his feet through the legs of his pants. Something was missing. He searched around for it, staring at the floor, the table, turning around to face Cyrus and search the rest of the room.

“What's wrong?” Cyrus asked 

“My scarf.” Therion tried to think of where he could have left it, but the memories seemed shadowy. “Where's my scarf?”

“It...ah…” Cyrus frowned. “It didn't wash out. There was… quite a bit of blood.”

Flashes were coming back to him. A laugh. A knife. A scream. A face, a hand, a voice.

Therion shook the images out of his head. “It's okay.”

“So I found you this.” Cyrus was standing in front of him, holding out something. Therion took it before he could conceptualize what he was looking at. Purple cloth, but a richer purple. A softer, satiny feel. Therion unfolded the new scarf in his hands, staring at it.

“That's as close as I could find,” the scholar said apologetically. “But perhaps another town would have something more suitable.”

Therion pulled one end, letting the scarf slide over his other hand, wondering at its softness. 

“I apologize if the other one had sentimental value,” Cyrus was saying. “It was the closest thing I saw, and I was concerned the blade had found an artery, and--”

“People don't… get me things.” Therion interrupted him. He looked up at the scholar. “It's not… that's not how it usually works.”

“So… it's suitable?”

Therion smiled down at the new purple scarf. “It's great.” Then his hands fell to his lap as recollection rushed back in. He looked up at Cyrus, who was grinning. “Your cloak.” The scholar wasn't wearing it. “You put it on me. I was all… dirty… I ruined it.”

Cyrus shook his head, still smiling. “Just the lining. Which needed replacement, anyhow. It's with a tailor.”

Therion felt more relief than he would have expected.

“Come, now. Let's get you something to eat.”

\--- --- ---

On their way down from the inn room, Cyrus explained the situation: how Prim had run back into town to discover an apothecary and a cleric had arrived in town that very day, and were miraculously staying at the same inn, and were willing to be roused from sleep to tend to the injured thief. The sweet old innkeeper had agreed to let them stay in return for continuing the nightly entertainment-- so Cyrus had played the piano, and Primrose had danced, waiting for Therion to wake up. Cyrus didn't betray a hint of the arguments Therion had overheard in his quasi-conscious state. After her performances at the inn, Primrose had been able to talk herself on stage at the tavern, while Cyrus went back to tend to Therion. That's where they were currently heading, to get some food.

“Was she just getting bored, or…” Therion asked. The night air was cool and refreshing, and helped infuse some energy into him.

“We… are running low on funds, as it were,” Cyrus said. “And she was concerned she may need to move on by herself. But now that you're awake, that's not an issue.”

He masked the underlying tension well.

When they entered the tavern, Primrose was on stage, and Cyrus gave her a wave. She smiled and winked at them as acknowledgement, without missing a step in her routine. They sat, and ordered Therion some stew, which he practically inhaled. He ordered another bowl of stew with a roll, two roast beef sandwiches, a side of cheese, and a pair of apples as dessert. Three quarters of the way through his feast, he realized Cyrus was just watching, sipping his single glass of dark red wine.

“Did you already eat?” Therion asked as he took another bite.

“Don't worry about it.”

Therion finished chewing, and set down the half-eaten apple. “You said we were low on money.”

“Nonsense. Eat. You need your strength.”

If it had been anyone other than Cyrus, he would have been more suspicious. People weren't just kind without some sort of motive. Especially not to him. Emotion surged up inside him, and he needed to move to try to shake it away. He ended up scooting his chair closer to Cyrus. He held out the second of his dessert apples. The scholar's eyes asked an unspoken question, and Therion nodded. Cyrus took the apple.

Therion kept eating, passively watching Primrose, recognizing some of the moves she had taught him. He could feel Cyrus' eyes on him, and swallowed a bite to try to stifle the flutter in his throat.

“You're really quiet,” Therion said, looking at his hands. “That's not like you.”

“I find that people grow irritated if I make inquiries within an hour of their waking. I assume the reaction is similar regardless of the time of day.”

Therion glanced up at him. “You have questions.”

“I always have questions.”

_So do I,_ Therion thought. His hand found the softness of the new scarf at his neck. He couldn't remember the last time someone had bought something for him. Even when he was a kid, no one had given two shits about trying to make him feel cared for.

“I can repay you for this,” Therion said. “And the food, and the inn, and your cloak. When the market opens in the morning, give me like… two hours. Tops.”

“Therion.” Cyrus shook his head and leaned forward. “There's no need. Primrose and I were able to cover the expenses though our nightly earnings, and because of the kindness of the innkeeper and the two healers…”

Therion didn't really hear any more of what the scholar said, because Cyrus had put his hand down onto Therion's forearm, and said his name, and the thief couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his pulse. He just stared at Cyrus, realizing for maybe the first time how rich and warm the color of his eyes were.

The scholar's face sunk. “Are you alright?”

Therion pulled his arm away from Cyrus’ touch, rubbed his face with his palms. “Yeah. Yeah.” He looked up. “I mean, I know I slept for three days straight, but…”

“Tired?” Cyrus asked.

“Maybe.” Therion shook his head. “Or maybe it's just loud in here.”

“Would you like to go back to the inn?”

Therion looked down at the table, speaking quietly. “Only if you're coming with.”

Cyrus didn't say anything until Therion looked up. Then he smiled. “But of course.”

\--- --- ---

Therion could feel his heartbeat racing as they walked back to the inn, and he wasn't sure why. _Too much food too fast,_ he told himself, but even he knew that was a lie. Cyrus was as cool as always. He had given a nod to Primrose back on stage as they had left, and she had winked at them. Cyrus had either pretended not to notice, or actually hadn't noticed. Therion pulled his scarf across his face, nuzzling his nose into the soft fabric. Cyrus was talking, but Therion's thoughts raged too loudly for him to hear.

They got back to the inn, climbed the stairs, stopped in front of their room’s door. Cyrus fished the key out of his vest pocket. As Therion watched, Cyrus seemed to move slowly, as if underwater. He opened the door into the room, stood to hold it open with his back pressed to the door jam, ushering Therion in. A warm smile.

Therion stepped shakily forward, frozen in the doorway. He felt like he was falling. But this time, there was someone to catch him.

He reached up, letting his hand fall on Cyrus’ shoulder. His eyes slowly lifted, and he shifted forward onto his toes just enough to press his lips against Cyrus’. It was quick, but it was all that he dared.

Therion fell back on his heels. Cyrus’ face was unreadable, his eyes questioning. “Sorry. I… you don't know how long I've wanted to…” he shook his head. _Always wanting what you can't have,_ he scolded himself. “Sorry.” He turned to the room.

Cyrus raised an arm, barring his entry. He turned, and Cyrus was facing him, and without a word, their lips met again.

The first time, Cyrus had been surprised. He hadn't reacted. But this time, the pressure of Cyrus' mouth moving against Therion's made him shiver. His hands fell against Cyrus’ chest as he leaned against him, trying to put his all into the kiss. He almost sighed when Cyrus pulled the softness of his lips away, and Therion slowly opened his eyes.

“Quarrycrest,” Cyrus said quietly.

“Wha…?” 

“How long you've wanted…” Cyrus shook his head. “I wasn't supposed to answer.”

Therion laughed, his knees still shaky. Cyrus smiled.

“Quick confession,” the scholar said. “I am notoriously bad at navigating situations like this one, and I seem to always guess incorrectly. Would you prefer that I just say goodnight and let you rest… or that I stay?”

Therion leaned up and kissed him again, slow and lingering. “Stay,” he said as they parted.

“See, I would have guessed wrong.”

Therion stepped back into the room, taking Cyrus’ hands in his, pulling him along. The door swung shut behind them. Therion backed up until he felt the edge of the bed behind them, then sank down. Cyrus was beside him, and their lips found each others’ once more. This time, Cyrus’ tongue teased along his lower lip, calculated pressure and soft tenderness. Therion's arms wrapped around Cyrus' shoulders, wanting to lose himself in the sensation, the newness and excitement, the feeling like he was floating. But eventually, he needed to breathe.

“I honestly did not expect you to be so good at that,” Therion whispered.

“It appears I am full of surprises.”

Therion could not resist. He threw his arms around Cyrus, and they fell backwards onto the bed, locked in a kiss once again. Therion managed to kick off his boots onto the floor, running his hands along Cyrus’ chest, fiddling with the buttons of his vest. He was having little success, and he pulled his lips away to watch what he was doing.

“Need help?” Cyrus teased.

Therion made a face. “Don't know why you need such complicated clothes.” He unfurled his new scarf, pulled off his tunic, let them both slide over the edge of the bed. 

Cyrus took off his vest, smiling coyly, sliding further up the bed. Therion was drawn back to him like a magnet. His hands crept under the hem of Cyrus’ shirt, feeling every inch of the scholar's bare chest. Cyrus’ hands curled around Therion's hips, pulling the thief against him. Their lips found each other's again.

A few more shuffles, interspersed with kisses and caresses, left them both in only their trousers with Therion straddling Cyrus. He rolled his hips, grinding his arousal against Cyrus as their lips danced. His head spun. He told himself that this had to be another one of those dreams the Dragonstones had given him. But when he opened his eyes and leaned back, there he was still, only the slightest hint of heat on his usually calm features.

Cyrus gently brushed the hair back from Therion's brow. His eyes were warm as they studied Therion's face.

“What?” the thief asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“I never get to see all of you,” Cyrus said. “You're always hidden.”

He trailed his touch down the side of Therion's cheek. When his fingers brushed against the leather collar, Therion recoiled.

“Is this too much?” The scholar pulled his hand back.

Therion shook his head. _It's not enough._

He kissed Cyrus again, but moved his attention to his cheek, his neck, down along his collarbone. He felt Cyrus' sigh beneath his lips as his mouth toyed with the scholar's nipple. His hands slid down Cyrus’ stomach, finding his belt, pressing against the growing stiffness beneath the cloth. He felt the outline of it with his hand before unfastening the closure. He slid the last of Cyrus’ clothes off his body.

In all the dreams that first Dragonstone had sparked in his mind, all the times he had taken or been taken by the scholar-- the stone didn't seem to be particular which way it went-- he had never had a good sense of this private part of him. Even when the scholar had been exposed in the sewers of Quarrycrest, too many thoughts of not being stabbed by a mad necromancer had kept him from really seeing. And now, the curiosity was nearly as strong as his desire.

He took Cyrus’ length in his hand, and it was perfect. Large enough, but not too large, the right size to fit his hand around, the slightest curve to make it seem like the kind of thing they would model a sculpture after, if they made those kinds of sculptures. It was perfect. _Cyrus’ cock was as handsome as he was._

Cyrus was looking at him, lips parted, about to ask if something was wrong, Therion knew. Before he could, the thief bent to take him in his mouth, turning his words into a soft moan as Therion pushed him all the way into his throat.

Therion slid Cyrus out of his mouth so he could tease with his lips and tongue, working along the length and around the tip. He felt the scholar's hand stroking the hair at the back of his head, and he looked up. Cyrus had his other arm over his eyes, his lips parted. His breathing was hastening as Therion quickened his pace. The thief slid one hand along the outside of Cyrus' thigh, the other curling around the base of his cock as he took it all within his mouth again. He felt his own desire building with the scholar's pleasure, but he didn't dare reach for himself. He thought he might explode.

Cyrus’ legs were shaking, just slightly, under the pressure rising within him. His breathing had become little gasps, and his fingers tightened in the thief's hair. “Therion…” he whispered, and the thief felt a twitch between his lips, the warmth of Cyrus’ seed spill onto his tongue. He held Cyrus in his mouth until he was sure he had every last drop. He swirled his tongue around the tip, making Cyrus gasp and shiver away. Therion grinned up at him.

Cyrus had a dreamy smile on his face. He took Therion's shoulders, guiding him up to lie next to him. Therion sank into his embrace, barely a breath away. 

Cyrus threaded his fingers through Therion's hair, pushing the hair back gently from his eyes. His smile was warm.

“You're remarkably beautiful.”

Therion gave a little laugh. “With my scars? And my weird nose that's been broken way too many times? Yeah, right.”

Cyrus shook his head, still smiling. “That's not what I see.”

Therion caught his smile, then buried his face in the pillow as the blush rose to his cheeks.

Cyrus shifted, running his hand across Therion's bare shoulders. The thief turned to him, and Cyrus sank into a kiss, slow and grateful. 

“Are you tired now?” Cyrus asked. 

Therion shook his head. 

“Good.”

Cyrus turned, nudging Therion onto his back. The thief laughed as the scholar left a line of kisses down his chest, across his stomach. He settled back into the mattress, and Cyrus undid the closure on his trousers. He lifted his hips to let Cyrus slide them off, remembering too late the ring of metal locked around him. Maybe he had already seen it?

Therion tensed and watched Cyrus notice it. He could tell from the way his brow furrowed, the way his eyes lingered, that he hadn't seen it, or at least not close enough to read the humiliating engraving until now. Therion tried to sit up, tried to frame an explanation. Cyrus looked up at him with that intense gaze, closing his hand around Therion's erection. The thief stopped, sank back onto his elbows. He didn't want to lie to him. But Cyrus didn't ask. Instead, he took Therion into his mouth.

The thief squeezed his eyes shut to relish the feeling of the warmth and wetness enveloping him. Cyrus used his tongue and lips methodically, testing to find the places and pressures that would drive Therion wild. He moved, spreading the thief's legs to position himself between them, gaining a better angle to stroke Therion's length as he licked and sucked. He was experimenting with the combinations now, noting Therion's reactions. Therion's back arched, and he ran his own fingers across his chest.

Cyrus let Therion's length slide out of his mouth, still stroking lazily with one hand. The thief looked down to meet his eyes. Without looking away, Cyrus stuck two fingers against his tongue, removing them slowly after they with slick with saliva. Still holding Therion's gaze, he touched his lips against the thief's length, and slid the wet fingers down around his entrance. The breath caught in Therion's throat as Cyrus' fingers circled the sensitive opening.

“Do you mind?” Cyrus asked, his breath warm against Therion's still-wet erection.

“Only if you're just going to tease me and not put it in.”

Cyrus smiled devilishly, slid his fingers inside of Therion as he slid his lips back over his cock. The thief sighed deeply, spreading his legs further. He could feel Cyrus’ fingers searching within him, pressing up to find the most sensitive places, stretching him as Cyrus' mouth focused on pleasuring him.

He could feel the fire burning through him. Cyrus had learned to play him as quickly as he had remembered how to play that piano. He wanted to slow it down, savor every moment, every motion of Cyrus’, every lick of the flame of desire. He bit his lip, feeling himself nearing the edge. He didn't want it to come, yet.

He reached down, combing his hand through Cyrus’ hair, gently lifting his head. He felt himself slide out of Cyrus’ warm, wet mouth, and only then could he focus his eyes enough to look down at the scholar. He tried to steady his breathing enough to speak, but his voice came out as a breathy whisper.

“Cyrus… fuck me.”

The scholar slid his fingers out, and leaned forward. “Pardon?”

Therion swallowed, tried to speak louder. “I need you to fuck me.”

“I didn't quite catch that.” Cyrus climbed over Therion's hips, his hands at either side of the thief's chest.

Therion was about to say it again until he noticed the scholar's coy grin.

“You bastard.” Therion smirked. 

Cyrus kissed his temple. “You're just fortunate I'm not going to make you say ‘please’.” He reached down to angle the head of his renewed desire against the opening he had just taken his fingers from.

_Gods, I would love for him to make me beg,_ Therion thought. He wrapped his arms around Cyrus' shoulders, bringing their lips together just before the scholar slid inside him. The thief broke off their kiss with a gasp of satisfaction. 

Cyrus moved within him slowly, his own eyes closed to concentrate on the sensation. With each push forward, he went just a little deeper, carefully exploring Therion's body. The thief moaned, fingers spread across Cyrus’ back, toes curling. He rocked forward to meet each of the scholar's thrusts, wanting to press him further and further within him. He sighed, content, when Cyrus was fully inside. 

The scholar moved deliberately, sensually. Therion felt the fire building anew, hotter and brighter than before. He ran his hands down the length of Cyrus’ back, leaned his lips to his ear.

“Take it,” he groaned. “Faster. Harder.”

“But of course.” Cyrus kissed him, and thrust inside the thief, giving him what he had asked for. 

Therion cried out in pleasure, curling his legs around Cyrus’ hips, holding their bodies together as the scholar rocked against him. He partly wished he could slow down time, to be locked together with Cyrus for hours, to just feel this, wrapped together, with the fiery thrill of this first time. To not think, but just feel. To let the pleasure make him forget his past, to forget what might await him tomorrow, to just be here. With him. 

But another part of him was crushed under the building pressure within him. Cyrus was panting at his ear, and he dug his fingers into Cyrus’ shoulders, the flames of pleasure threatening to consume him. This time, he let them. Sliding a hand between their bodies, it took three quick strokes for release to come, hard and total, rolling through his entire body. He muscles tightened around Cyrus within him. In two more thrusts, Cyrus sighed himself, climaxing inside of the thief. Breathing heavily, he left another lingering kiss on Therion's mouth, before collapsing at his side, his arm across the thief's chest.

Therion turned to him, letting Cyrus wrap his arms around him, tugging a blanket over their bodies. He sank his forehead against Cyrus’ bare chest, feeling the scholar's lips against the top of his head, before Cyrus nestled his chin in Therion's hair. 

Cyrus was soon asleep, breathing deeply, but Therion was still overtaken by the warmth--both from the afterglow of their activities, and by the warmness that had threatened to overwhelm him since he woke up to find Cyrus waiting patiently at his bedside, and that smile on the scholar's face when he first saw him. The simple kindness was more than he had ever known. And then to come up to this inn room, and to make him feel so… wanted.

He took comfort in the fact that with his face against Cyrus’ chest, the scholar wouldn't be able to see his tears.


	15. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Therion. You know I had to do it to em.

It was too much, Therion decided. He lay in Cyrus’ arms and felt like an imposter, like there was no way he could possibly deserve it. It was too good, too warm, too comforting, and he was… well, himself. He slid out of the scholar's embrace without waking him, dressed, and snuck out of the inn room, careful to close the door quietly behind him. He set out into the cool desert night.

_Darius. Cyrus. Cyrus. Darius._ His mind was spinning, all the thoughts he had been trying to push away since the night of the Black Market were overtaking him, now combining with the swirl of new emotion and his still fluttering heart. He walked quickly through the darkened streets, scarf pulled up close over his face, hoping to outdistance or hide from his own thoughts. Or at least he could find a place to get some alcohol to wash them away.

_Darius is the reason I can't make myself trust Cyrus._ He tried to sort the tempest of his thoughts into statements. _But Darius is the reason I need Cyrus._ He pondered this one for a while, turning down a side street, away from the watchman’s lights in the town plaza. _And Cyrus is everything Darius isn't._ Caught up in his thoughts, his usual cautious sense of his surroundings lapsed. He never would have turned down such a dark street, in the middle of the night, in an unfamiliar town, had he not been distracted by his emotions. _And why the hell am I still thinking about that ginger bastard anyway?”_

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were too close. A figure jumped out at him from the shadows, lunging at his face. Therion saw the flash of a blade, and twisted away. The shadow missed him, but he felt his own dagger slide from its sheath at his waist. Therion tried to grab for it, but was knocked backwards with a stiff elbow to his sternum. The wind knocked out of him, he was trying to recover when he was crushed chest first into a side wall, his right arm twisted painfully behind his back, his left hand braced on the wall in front of him.

A voice was at his ear, warm breath against his cheek. “You seem to have forgotten your duties, boy.”

It took a moment, in the panic, to recognize the voice. House Ravus’ butler was ridiculously strong for an older man… he must have had some training in his youth.

“Heathcote,” Therion hissed.

“Mistress Cordelia sent me out to check on how well you were completing the task she gave you.” His voice was cold. “She misses you, you know.”

“Sucks for her. You think she'd have enough money to lure more dumb bastards into her trap.”

Heathcote twisted his arm a little more, the pressure in his shoulder making the thief yell in pain.

“You owe us an emerald. The market has come and gone.”

“I'm working on it,” Therion said through gritted teeth.

Heathcote laughed. “Don't lie to me. I've been watching you, and that dark-haired fellow you were making eyes at all night in the tavern. Seems he may be too much of a distraction.” The butler's body was pressed against him, sandwiching Therion against the wall, with nowhere to move.

“I'm getting your damned stones. I know who has the emerald.”

“So do I. The question is why aren't you out there after him, instead of coupling with strange men in inn rooms.”

Therion growled in frustration. Heathcote laughed. “You thought you were free from our eyes once you left Bolderfall. Naive as always.” Therion felt a hand move across his waist, tugging at his belt. He tried to squirm away, but Heathcote just pushed his chest harder into the wall.

“I just need to make sure the ornament we gave you is still there.” The butler's hand searched under the cloth, groping for the metal band that was still locked around the thief.

“It's there,” Therion clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the hand feeling him up. “It doesn't fucking come off. I've tried.”

“I wouldn't have expected any less of you,” Heathcote said. “What did your dark-haired lover think of it?”

Therion shut his eyes, trying to squeeze away the embarrassment. He felt his whole body relax when Heathcote's touch retreated, only to tense again when the butler tugged the back of his trousers down, exposing his ass. Heathcote used his foot to step on the cloth, pulling it down to Therion's ankles. The thief tried to fight it, but Heathcote was leaning most of his weight against Therion's back, so much so that it was becoming difficult to breathe. The butler's knee pushed between Therion's, parting his legs enough for Heathcote to be able to reach for any part of him he wanted. The butler's free hand slid down his back, through the cleft in his rear, settling on his entrance. Therion breathed in sharply as Heathcote pushed inside.

“You let him fuck you,” Heathcote said, mocking judgement in his voice. 

“Just…” Therion bit back rage. “Just let me go do what you asked me to do. Just let me go.”

“Cordelia never lets me have any satisfaction back at the house,” Heathcote said, swirling his two fingers inside Therion, then sliding them out. “Is this his seed? Still inside you?”

The butler raised his hand, aiming to shove the dirty fingers in Therion's mouth, but the thief refused to open it. Instead, Heathcote could only trail them across Therion's lips.

He felt a surge of overwhelming rage at this. Not for his own humiliation and degradation, but for the fact that Heathcote was destroying this one night he had had that was pure, and good, and everything he could have asked for. Now it was polluted and stained, the memory would forever have this ending stuck to it. A sour note. A rotten core.

He screamed and beat his one free fist against the wall, the anger quaking through him, he barely noticed when Heathcote's erection violated him. The physical result of his and Cyrus’ night together made it easy for the butler to slide inside. He had liked the thought of the scholar's come within him--now that was being tarnished as well, reduced to lubricant for a sadistic servant of a cruel mistress. Therion offered no resistance. He didn't see the point in fighting back. His body rocked against the wall as the butler thrust inside of him, hatred raging every time he was crushed forward into the hard surfacel.

When Heathcote had finished fucking him in that dark back alley, he pulled out just enough to let the sticky trails of his own release run down the inside of Therion's legs. Heathcote still leaned the thief into the wall, whispering a final message.

“Mistress Cordelia wants to see you. You have two months to make your way back to Bolderfall. Otherwise, I have been instructed to eliminate your distractions.” Heathcote bit the edge of Therion's ear, and he tried to squirm away. “Your dark-haired lover won't be fucking you any more if he's dead.”

Therion's blood froze at these words. Heathcote released him, and his knees gave in. The thief crumpled to the ground. Heathcote vanished into the shadows as suddenly as he had appeared.

Therion wadded up his new scarf over his face and screamed into it, the cloth muffling most of the noise. _Why couldn't I have just had this?!_ His beautiful night with Cyrus had been stolen from him. And now he had to go back to Bolderfall-- back to face whatever punishment Cordelia dealt out for his failure-- or they were going to take Cyrus from him altogether. He screamed into the scarf until his voice cracked with strain. Then he just pressed his palms into his eyes until the colors started to dance in his vision.

Images and feelings flashed through his mind. Cyrus kissing him. Darius taunting him. Prim teaching him to dance. Cordelia humiliating him. Heathcote threatening him. Prim kissing him, back in Sunshade. Cyrus’ warm smile, beaming at him. The strange man in black, grinning at him. Gareth’s blade against his skin. Cyrus dancing with Primrose. Cyrus lecturing Therese. Cyrus fucking Odette.

The memory from the closet in Quarrycrest was suddenly forefront in his mind, but this time it wasn't Odette. And it wasn't him. It was Primrose. 

Cyrus’ eyes, as he had watched her dance. Cyrus’ voice, reassuring her that she was safe.

Therion dragged his hands over his face. He was shaking with anger, humiliation, desperation, jealousy. If there was something good in his life, it had to be taken away. It had to be poisoned from the start. 

He tugged on his clothes as he stood, collapsing against the wall. He held the end of his new scarf in his hand. He had an urge to throw it down, to leave it in the gutter. It was tainted now. This entire night was stained. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. His heart held out hope, even if his mind berated his foolishness. He looped the scarf over his shoulders, stumbling down the street. He tripped over a ridge in the ground, catching himself on his hands and knees, cursing. When he looked up, a sign stood directly before him, as if placed there by Aeber himself.

_Wellspring Liquor and Spirits_

Therion fished for his lock-picking pin. He was suddenly thirsty.

\--- --- ---

When Cyrus woke in the morning, he reached for the far side of the bed, surprised to find it cold and empty. He sat up, searching the empty room, disappointed. He stood, replaced the blankets neatly, and dressed. As he splashed some water on his face over the basin and combed his hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, he expected Therion to burst in the door at any moment. When he didn't, the scholar's frown deepened.

He descended the stairs to greet the friendly innkeeper-- he had gone out of his way to be amicable to the old lady, since she had been so generous during Therion's recovery. After some pleasant smalltalk, he asked about Primrose and Therion. She didn't know about the thief, but the dancer had gone out already that morning, mentioning she would be breaking her fast at a local coffeehouse. Cyrus thanked her, and wished her a good day.

Cyrus didn’t see a trace of Theion on his way through town to the coffeehouse, even when he stopped by the tailor to pick up his mended cloak. He entered the cafe to the bright smell of coffee and sweetbreads. He searched around, but only spotted Primrose, a hood wrapped over her head and shoulders, picking at a pastry. She waved at him, and he walked over.

As he seated himself, a teenage boy who was serving as a waiter-- and who was very interested in making Primrose happy-- popped over to offer the scholar some coffee. He accepted, and asked for some bread and jam. When the boy had gone, Cyrus attempted to mask the concern in his voice.

“Have you seen Therion?”

Primrose ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “I thought he was with you?”

“He was, but…” Cyrus frowned into the dark coffee in front of him. A few moments passed in silence. 

“Talk to me,” Primrose said.

Cyrus shook his head. “He wouldn't want me to. He… wants to keep things unspoken, I suppose.”

Prim scoffed. “He should have told you that before all the conversations we had while he was recovering. Cat's out of the bag.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I…” he began, but stopped to sip some coffee before he continued. “I have long struggled with reading the subtext of people's words and actions. When people say one thing, act a certain way, and then say or do something completely contradictory… I know that social interaction is a complex performance with many nuances, I just--” he shook his head. “It's always been a puzzle I can't quite figure out. And one can't read about it, because every author’s opinions contradict the others. It just leaves me at a loss, and I'm sure that I constantly act improperly, but because most people naturally avoid confrontation, I'm sure I'm not even aware of half of my mistakes, so I can't learn from them.” The scholar sighed, and sipped his drink. 

“Well, did you do anything… unexpected?” Primrose asked.

Cyrus frowned. “Define ‘unexpected’ in this context.”

Prim grinned slyly, and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you put it in his butt without warning?”

“He asked me to!”

Primrose almost spilled her coffee, laughing. “Oh my Gods!”

Cyrus hid his face in his hands. “Information you keep unsaid,” he scolded himself. “I apologize.”

When she had recovered from her laughter, Primrose shifted forward on her chair. “He did just nearly die, you know.”

“Oh, I'm aware,” Cyrus said. “I was there for that part.”

“I know, but…” Primrose shrugged. “His head is probably not even in the right place. He's been through a lot. Give him some space. Don't blame yourself.”

Cyrus looked down at the cup between his hands. “I'm depending on your consul, since you are far more authoritative on the subject of interpersonal relations than I.”

Primrose reached across the table and set her hand over Cyrus’, on the coffee cup. “Don't blame yourself,” she said. Cyrus looked down at her slender hand on his, then up at her eyes. “And this is not flirting,” she said, squeezing his hand. “This is comfort from a friend.”

Cyrus laughed. “Thank you for that,” he said. “Why can't everyone just clarify their actions?”

They heard steps behind him, and turned, Cyrus only slightly pulling his hand away from Prim's. She yanked her hand back, but not quickly enough. Therion saw it, and was staring at where it had been, as he approached with his hands in his pockets and a furrow in his brow.

“Therion!” Cyrus said, with an oblivious smile. It slowly faded as Therion's expressionless eyes met the scholar's. Cyrus frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Therion said, a biting edge to his voice. “Peachy.”

“Therion,” Primrose half scolded, sitting back.

“Well, are we going?” Therion said, loudly, his sharp look darting from one to the other. He slurred the words a little. “Or are we still having tea and crumpets?”

“This is coffee,” Cyrus said slowly, studying Therion.

“Are you drunk?” Primrose asked, dropping her voice. “Lower your voice.”

“I'm not drunk,” Therion said, still loud, drawing the attention of some nearby patrons. “You're drunk.”

“It's not even noon,” Prim hissed.

“Hey, I don't go around telling you how to live your life. Tell you what to say,” Therion stared at the hand that had been on top of Cyrus’. “Tell you who to fuck.”

“Damnit, shh!” Prim shushed, as the patrons and staff were looking over at them, angrily now. 

“Therion, sit down,” Cyrus said. 

Therion jerked himself into a chair at the table, elbows hitting the table, cradling his forehead in his hands. Cyrus stared at him, worry etching lines into his face.

“Where are we going?” Therion muttered to the table. “I don't want to stay here. But not Bolderfall. I don't want to go to Bolderfall.”

Primrose looked past him at Cyrus, confused.

“Okay, we won't,” Cyrus said, slowly. “I have business in Stoneguard. We can go there.” He looked at Primrose, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“I have to go to Stillsnow. Doesn't matter which way around the Central Sea that I go.”

“Is that all right?” Cyrus asked, cautiously.

Therion jerked his head up, looking at Cyrus with residual anger. But one he met the scholar's eyes, the fury melted. He couldn't remember why he was mad in the first place. He just nodded. 

“Here,” Cyrus said, pushing over the rest of his breakfast. “Eat something. Then we'll go.”

\--- --- ---

They packed up their belongings and crossed to the Highlands in an uncomfortable silence. Therion hung back, concentrating on his steps as the ground wavered beneath him. Cyrus had suggested that they wait until he had sobered up, but Therion had stubbornly insisted. He had no desire to stay in Wellspring. But despite Cyrus’ occasional glance back at him, Therion still snuck sips from his concealed stolen bottle. He felt if the alcohol buzz faded, his dark thoughts would return with a vengeance.

Primrose walked ahead, picking out the path. She had pulled on some dark leggings and leather boots for the trip, depending on those and her brown cloak to keep out the chill of the higher elevation. She had been distracting herself with Cyrus and Therion, but now that they were moving out of the Sunlands, her reality came flooding back to her.

_I killed a man. With my own hands. A terrible man, a man who deserved his fate, but I took his life. It cost me Yusufa. And I need to take at least three more lives._

_Yusufa…_ she felt the heat rise behind her eyes. She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts away.

“So, Cyrus,” she said, shattering the silence. “What do you know about the Highlands?”

Cyrus smiled mischievously. “What do I know about the Highlands? Well, the legends tell about the Kingdom of Hornburg, which fell after a prolonged war--” and he was off. His voice filling the quiet, even if she really wasn't listening, was enough to keep the dread and doubt at bay.

Cyrus continued for a long while, until the strain and the altitude became apparent in his voice. At the top of an incline, he stopped for breath.

“It seems I'm out of practice after not having to lecture for so long,” Cyrus laughed, leaning against a boulder. 

Primrose pulled a water flask from a pouch on the side of her bag. Therion watched the smile on her lips as she handed it to him, and Cyrus’ genuine thanks when he took it, drinking. Their eyes lingered on each other's, but they both turned to look at the sound of the whiskey bottle sloshing to Therion's lips.

Their faces hardened at him.

“What?” Therion stared back.

“Why do you have that?” Primrose asked, tiredly.

“Because they need better locks on their doors.”

Cyrus’ eyes were nothing but concern and disappointment. That cut Therion deeper than anything. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, and hurled the bottle behind him. There was a satisfying crash of breaking glass.

“There. It's gone.” Therion leaned his weight against a tree.

Primrose shook her head ar the thief, holding out her hand for her water flask. Cyrus returned it, and walked tentatively over to Therion. 

“Therion?” He kept his voice low, so Primrose couldn't overhear.

“I threw it away, okay?”

“No. I...I want to apologize. If there was anything wrong with my conduct or my… performance last night, I would like you to know it was not my intent. But also, I would like to know what I did, so I can not do it in the future.”

Therion stared at him, trying to make sense of the words. “You didn't… you didn't do anything wrong.”

“You can tell me what I did. I'd appreciate it, so I can correct it.”

“You didn't do anything!” Therion felt like screaming.

“Then why are you behaving like this?”

Therion suddenly saw himself from Cyrus’ perspective, how he was treating him. How Cyrus must see this as his fault. Guilt rose up inside him, as did the alcohol. He turned and braced himself against the tree trunk as he vomited all over the roots.

Primrose shook her head. “Such a mess.” Therion knew she wasn't talking about the puke.

Cyrus sighed, watching Therion wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Maybe we should take a break.”

\--- --- ---

Therion woke up, not even realizing he had been asleep. The sun was high in the sky. His head throbbed, his throat was dry. He moved nothing except his eyes, searching for Primrose and Cyrus, feeling like he couldn't blame them if they had just left him here. 

He saw them, a little ways off, sitting distressingly close together. Cyrus was leaning back, his arms anchoring him, one of his hands planted directly behind Prim's red clothed rear. They were talking too softly for Therion to overhear anything other than the general music of their voices. Primrose laughed, and he saw Cyrus turn to her with that smile he had hoped had been his, and his only. His stomach turned, but there was nothing left inside of it.

Primrose must have sensed his gaze, as she looked back over her shoulder to see Therion glaring at her. She elbowed Cyrus. “You're alive,” she said, rising to her feet.

This time, Cyrus only had the muted beginnings of the smile that had greeted him last time he awoke, in the bed in Wellspring. The scholar shut the book on his lap and stood, tucking it under his arm. Therion wondered at how much effort it would take him to stand up.

Cyrus approached, appraising him. “Feeling better?”

“Not drunk anymore, if that's what you mean,” Therion muttered. He met Primrose's disapproving eye, and noticed Cyrus’ concern. _They fucked each other while I was knocked out in that bed, didn't they? Probably right next to me._ The imagined scene from earlier flashed through his mind. 

He squeezed his eyes shut to push it away. When he opened them, Cyrus had a hand extended to help him to his feet. Therion took it, the jealousy melting.

“Shall we press on?” Cyrus asked. Primrose shrugged and shouldered her bag. 

“Yeah, I'm fine now,” Therion said. Cyrus’ eyes were so warm. “Let's go before it starts getting dark.”

They continued down the trail that afternoon, talking occasionally about nothing of substance. As the burning red sunset colored the sky, they found a place to make camp. Cyrus gathered some wood and started the fire, while Primrose kicked together some piles of leaves to cushion the ground they would sleep on. Therion couldn't help but notice she made three very distinct, equally-spaced piles.

“Back to camp food,” Prim sighed, tugging out a bag of dried chickpeas and lentils. Cyrus had the little cooking pot they had been using, and he poured some water in to start it boiling. He helped it along with a bit of magic, and Primrose carefully measured in the dry legumes. They worked in sync with each other. Therion felt a hollowness within him.

Cyrus looked up at him. “You didn't happen to… pick up anything we could add to this?”

Therion shrugged, patted his pockets, and dug through a couple. “I don't think I had cooking in mind this morning.”

“No, I suppose not,” Cyrus said absently. 

“If only one of us could actually cook,” Prim complained. “Living in a tavern doesn't really teach those skills.”

“I just took what I could get most of the time,” Therion muttered.

“The dining hall always sufficed,” Cyrus shrugged. “Perhaps I should see if I can acquire a cookbook in Stoneguard.”

They ate, talking mostly about all the food they left behind whenever they set out on the road. The sun set, and the stars blinked awake in the darkening sky, the crescent moon smiling down at them.

Primrose was the first to yawn, bid the other two goodnight, and curl up under her cloak, her back warmed by the campfire. Therion sat cross-legged, studying a dagger he had found in one of his many pockets. He had no idea where it had come from, but he didn't remember much between picking the lock on the liquor store and finding Primrose's hand on Cyrus’ that morning. He looked towards the scholar, who was leaning against a fallen tree trunk, a book propped open against his bent knees. A glint of fire light shone on the gilded pages.

“Should you be reading that?” he asked, keeping his voice low, as to not disturb Primrose.

Cyrus looked up, roused from deep concentration. “Why should I not?”

“Isn't that the book that crazy necromancer had in Quarrycrest?” Therion shifted closer, so he wouldn't have to talk as loudly.

“It is,” Cyrus nodded.

“So isn't it…” Therion shrugged, “Evil, or something?”

“Knowledge can be neither good nor evil,” Cyrus said. “It all depends on how one uses it.”

“So you're not going to try to mind control anyone.”

Cyrus crinkled his upper lip in distaste. “Heavens no. It was extremely unpleasant when I experienced it; I wouldn't inflict that on anyone else.” He turned a page absently. “Plus, you need blood crystals to do it. Grisly business.”

Therion nodded. “Look, I…” he stared into the glowing fire. “I'm really bad at apologies.”

Cyrus looked up over the top of the book. When the thief's eyes seemed sincere, he shut the book, listening.

Therion shrugged. “I just…” he shifted closer, and eyed the back of sleeping Primrose. “I just need to know.” His voice was a bare whisper.

“Know what?”

“Are you attracted to Prim?” He felt jealousy surge through him even as he asked the question.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Cyrus furrowed his brow. “I did, I just don't quite understand. If you're asking if Primrose is attractive, well, I don't think she'd be quite as successful in her line of work if--”

“Are _you_ attracted to Prim?” Therion insisted.

Cyrus just looked at him, concerned.

“Did something happen between you two while I was asleep?”

“I see.” Cyrus hesitated for a full, soul-aching moment. Therion felt his heart tear at the seams. 

“That is a tricky question.”

“Just answer it!” Therion hissed.

Cyrus held up a finger to shush him. “Let me say my piece. It's a tricky question because there isn't an answer that will satisfy you. If I say no, I'm not attracted to her, then you won't believe me, because she is, objectively, a beautiful woman. Then you will think me a liar in addition to your jealousy being stoked, which is not a beneficial outcome. But if I say yes, that I am attracted to her, then you're angry with me for that, in addition to the emotional discomfort that me saying such a thing to you may cause.” Therion blinked, parsing his words through his brain. 

Cyrus continued. “So I cannot answer that question, except to say that I believe I understand the unpleasantness that will arise if I acted on any feelings of attraction-- whether or not they exist-- and because I value your happiness I can promise you that I have not, nor will I, engage in any of the activities you suspect with Primrose.”

Therion nodded slowly, biting his lower lip.

“I value her candor and her companionship. That's all.”

The thief massaged the space between his eyebrows. “I'm sorry.” He shook his head. “I didn't mean… I'm kind of a disaster right now. But you didn't do anything. Anything wrong, at least, everything you did was… “ he stared down at his hands. “The point is, I don't want to make you feel bad. Because you're great, and way too good to have to deal with the raging garbage fire that I am right now.”

Cyrus laughed. “That's quite the colorful metaphor.” He set his book beside him, and shifted closer. “What can I do to help?”

Therion shrugged. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

Cyrus frowned, but didn't press.

“You're fighting back the urge to ask a bunch of questions, aren't you?”

“Oh, Gods, yes,” Cyrus grinned. “No one understands the very real struggle.” His sincere eyes met Therion's. “But I'm trying not to offend. Because I really like you.”

The smile spread, slow and warm, across Therion's lips. He leaned in against Cyrus, just wanting some physical reassurance to steady his raging emotions. He felt the scholar plant a kiss against his temple, and he turned towards him. Their lips met in the flickering firelight. In an instant, Therion's doubts and fears were gone. He felt Cyrus’ tongue against his lower lip, and let himself be lost in the kiss.

Keeping their lips together, Therion shifted, climbing across to straddle Cyrus’ lap. The scholar's hands curved around his rear. Therion wrapped his arm around Cyrus’ shoulders, his other hand tracing up the scholar's chest, around his neck. He started rocking his hips reflexively, he desire growing. Cyrus’ touch crept to the front of Therion's hips, outlining the hardening arousal beneath the thin layer of cloth. 

The thief broke off the kiss to catch his breath. The heat had hit him hard, and sudden. Cyrus looked over his shoulder, across the fire. Therion followed his eyes. Primrose was sound asleep, her back to them. 

“She won't wake up,” Therion whispered. He reached to where their bodies met, undoing Cyrus’ trousers, releasing the stirring desire within. He stroked it in his hand, his mouth moving on the scholar's neck as he let out a breathy sigh.

Cyrus’ own hands struggled to expose Therion's own erection, running pressure over the length. Therion pressed their bodies closer, his cock brushing against Cyrus’, sensitive skin against tingling nerves. The scholar's hand moved to enclose both of them, holding them together as he stroked. Therion rolled his hips, sliding his cock against Cyrus’, through his hand. He closed his own fingers over Cyrus’, squeezing them together harder.

Therion tried to control his breathing. He knew Primrose was sleeping behind them. If she rolled over, she would clearly be able to see their bodies moving together in the firelight. Part of that excited him more. Part of him wanted her to see them.

He felt the heat burning within him, and his breathing quickened. He sighed into Cyrus' neck as he kissed and sucked at it. He thrust harder. Cyrus’ breath was hot against his ear.

“Wait…” he whispered. Therion slowed, sliding his touch to Cyrus’ length only, bringing the scholar up to the edge with him. He knew the ending Cyrus wanted.

“Okay,” Cyrus breathed. Their cocks were together again, their hands around each other's. Therion felt Cyrus’ length tense and pulse as he came, and the thief was soon after. The thief caught it in his hand, their seed mixing in his palm. His lips searched out Cyrus’ hungrily.

When they broke away, Therion studied the shadows dancing across Cyrus’ features. He was absurdly beautiful, especially here, in this moment, where he was his, and nothing in the malevolent universe could take him away. Cyrus brushed Therion's hair back across his forehead.

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” Therion whispered.

Cyrus kissed him. “But of course.”

 

 

Neither one of them noticed the eyes from the forested darkness, watching.


	16. Stonegard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion is jealous and has bad dreams. Primrose is argumentative and full of self-doubt. Cyrus is getting a little tired of it.

Prior to leaving Sunshade, Primrose had always had the same dream. She was hiding in her father's study, hands clasped over her mouth to muffle her panic, listening to those foul murderers bring an end to her house, her family, her father. She could never forget a single detail of that day, as it replayed itself over and over each night, a play with no final performance. But now, another dream sometimes took her sleeping mind's stage: the last night she saw Yusufa alive. The image of the blade spilling her blood. But most of all, those final words in Yusufa's failing voice.

“Please… Tell me… Prim… Do you love me?”

Yusufa’s mother had died giving birth to her. She had been sold by her father when she was nine years old. She had been passed from Master to Master until she fell into Helganish’s clutches at sixteen. Primrose was a couple years older, but they had found each other quickly. Yusufa had gone her whole life without a friend, without someone who cared. And because of that, she had worshipped Primrose for her kindness. When they began seeking comfort in each other's bodies, Yusufa had believed it was love. Because with the life that she'd lived, how was she supposed to know differently? How was she supposed to recognize love when she saw it?

“Yes, Yusufa. I do.” 

_How am I supposed to recognize love when I see it?_

Primrose had been fighting the grief, the loss, busying herself with Cyrus and Therion and their problems to avoid confronting her own. She had told herself that she needed to be stronger. She had endured so much up to this point. She had lost her nobility, her home, her innocence, her shame, her dignity, her freedom. What was one more loss, really?

“I'm so...happy. Not… alone… anymore.” 

But now she was alone.

Primrose opened her eyes. Trying to sleep any longer was a futile gesture. The eastern sky was growing lighter, but the sun still hadn't climbed over the ridges of the mountains. She sat up, pulling the cloak tight around her shoulders. The campfire was nothing but smouldering coals. The light was just enough to make out the figures sleeping on the other side of the fire. Therion was curled up against Cyrus, his arm over the scholar's chest, both of them tucked in under Cyrus’ cloak. Therion's lips were parted, and he was snoring lightly next to Cyrus’ shoulder. The image pulled at something within Primrose, and she barely stifled the sob that rose up in her throat. Cyrus’ eyes opened, meeting hers. Primrose turned away, so he wouldn't see the wetness welling up in her eyes. She stumbled to her feet, pushing away from their campsite, collapsing a few strides away against a boulder.

Cyrus hesitated, glancing between Primrose and Therion, clearly concerned and conflicted. He carefully lifted Therion's arm from his chest, gently moving it aside. Half-asleep, the thief groped for him.

“Therion, I need to get up,” Cyrus whispered.

“No. Stay,” Therion mumbled, burying his face into his scarf. He had it wadded up under his head as a pillow.

“I'll be right back.” Cyrus folded the thief's arm in towards his body, and slid away from him. He carefully smoothed out the cloak, tucking it around Therion. He gave the thief a lingering glance before rising and carefully navigating the path towards Primrose that would be the gentlest on his bare feet.

Primrose was aware of his approach, but she didn't look behind her. She kept her chin high, only quickly swiping a fingertip under her eye to wipe away the lingering tear or two.

“The dream again?” Cyrus kept his voice low. Primrose didn't respond to the question.

“I'm happy for you two,” she said, still looking forward. The first rays of sunlight had begun to spill over the tops of the mountains.

Cyrus seemed confused at first, then glanced back towards Therion. “If it causes you discomfort, then…”

“No, Cyrus, it's fine,” she said sharply. 

He leaned against the rock beside her, crossing his arms over his chest. In just his white shirt and trousers, his hair falling loosely around his shoulders, he had a far different air about him. He still had that authoritative, knowledgeable note in his voice that inspired confidence and trust in him, but now with a casual coolness that masked the awkwardness she knew was always making him second guess others’ words and actions. He seemed taller, in way-- his limbs longer, his shoulders broader, as if he were no longer weighed down by the weight of formality and responsibility that his hard-earned scholar's cloak signified.

“Our conversations in Wellspring provided me with substantial peace of mind,” Cyrus said. “I was hoping I could return the favor.”

Primrose turned to face him, her anger softening. Sometimes she was caught up by how ridiculously handsome he was. He knew this, of course, but he truly didn't understand the effect his looks had on those around him. 

“I'm sorry,” she told him. “I'll be fine. Sometimes I just worry…” she shook her head. “I'll be fine. I will have to be.”

“Primrose,” Cyrus said, and his comforting hand was on her shoulder. She turned to meet his eyes. “You are probably one of the strongest women I've met. You can handle anything that comes your way.”

There was such sincerity in his voice. She could have kissed him. The sun broke over the mountains, casting them as silhouettes against the brilliant sunrise. The warmth burned against the dancer's cheeks. She put her hand over his, intertwined their fingers. She leaned in, lost in his eyes. Her lips landed in an awkward place between his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth. There were a few moments where Prim could almost hear the confusion of his thoughts, before he composed himself. He smiled at her, patted her hand, and stepped away. 

Therion shut his eyes again, trying to pretend he hadn't seen anything. He only thought of their entrance into the Black Market, and how easily those lies had slid off Cyrus’ tongue.

\--- --- ---

When they finally crested the last hill and arrived in Stonegard, all three seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. It was just before nightfall, and the town was coming alive.

“Those inclines are more tiring than they look,” Primrose breathed. “I need something to eat.”

“They say that foods higher in sodium are best to replace nutrients lost by physical exertion,” Cyrus advised.

“Tavern's that way.” Therion motioned. Primrose raised an eyebrow at him. “They have house-made pretzels. They're really good.”

“You've been here before?” Cyrus asked.

Therion shrugged. “I've been a lot of places.”

Cyrus clapped a hand on his shoulder as he walked past, and Therion couldn't keep the scowl on his face.

They settled in a table in the tavern, which had a much different vibe than those in the Sunlands-- the area that might have been a stage was crowded with wooden casks of beer, and the patrons were flush with jolly laughter rather than slinking into shadowy corners. Cyrus smiled wide, caught up in the mirth. His smile was as contagious as ever, but Primrose couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that kept her glancing over her shoulder. Everytime she looked back and caught Therion's eye, his expression hardened at her. 

“The evening is too far gone to do much tonight,” Cyrus mused. “I suppose I'll begin my investigation in the morning.” He laughed. “Or perhaps not? I have the freedom to do whatever I want No schedule, no meetings, no due dates, no office hours. That's the second best thing about this adventure.” He looked at Therion expectantly. The thief stared him down.

Prim couldn't take the awkward silence. “He wants you to ask him what the first best thing is.”

“I know that's what he wants.” Therion gave her a look, then grinned. “It's just funny to make him wait.” 

Cyrus’ grin was close to cracking.

“Besides, he's going to say something stupid like--”

Cyrus burst. “Meeting the two of you!”

“Like that.” Therion laughed. Cyrus still wore his giddy smile.

Primrose shook her head. “Well, I'm beat,” she said. “I don't sleep well on the trail. If you boys don't mind, I'll get us some beds at the inn and turn in for the night.” 

She paused. “How many do we need?”

“Two should suffice,” Cyrus said, serious now.

“Three,” Therion said at the same time. Cyrus glanced at him, but the thief refused to meet his eyes, downing a swig of ale instead.

“Three,” Cyrus corrected himself. 

Primrose nodded. Neither one looked at her as she rose from the table.

“Don't read into it,” Therion muttered after she was out of ear shot.

“You realize that's pretty much how I operate, right?” Cyrus said.

Therion stifled his laugh. “I know. I…” he searched for the words.

“You needen’t explain,” Cyrus said. “I can respect your privacy.” 

Therion fell for him even harder at that. _But that's the problem,_ he berated himself. _Same as always. And later you'll look back and realize every warning sign you missed. Just like always._

\--- --- ---

In a dark parlor, a dark man sat sipping a glass of dark wine. He sat with his back to the fireplace, so his face was cast in shadow. The parlor door creaked open, slowly. A woman poked her head through the door.

“Holy Aelphan, you are such a cliche right now.” She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her, smoothing her skirt.

“It's a little thing called stage presence,” the man said, swirling his wine. “And you're late.”

“I am. Apologies,” she said, sweeping quickly across the room. “But I found someone… interesting. I told you about the situation before.” She sat in a high backed chair opposite the man in the shadows, keeping her voice low. “Someone who will help me take care of my little… scholar issue.”

“Good,” the man said. “We almost missed out on the emerald because of that one.” He motioned with a gloved hand for her to help herself to some wine. “Might I remind you that subtlety is key. The last thing we need is the Knights Ardante sniffing around our affairs.” He held out his glass for the woman to pour him some more. “We don't want more suspicions piling up like in Sunshade.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” the woman assured him. “If anything, it may convince him to come over to help us.”

The man nodded. “Replace Yvon?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Yvon is so useless. No. I know this scholar, from Atlasdam. He's good. Gideon couldn't subject him to mind control. But if I can ensnare him in the right complications…” she shrugged.

“And you're bringing another actor to the scene to accomplish this?”

The woman smiled. “I brought her. Would you like to meet her?” The woman didn't wait for an answer. She was up, and striding towards the door. “Sweetheart, are you still out there? I'd like you to come meet an associate of mine.” She had to cross to the door to open it, so that the girl could enter. Her hands toyed with the hem of her bodice nervously as she stepped into the room, looking shyly up at the man in the chair.

“She was a student in Atlasdam,” the woman said, ushering the girl in. “Introduce yourself, dear.”

“My… my name is Therese,” she squeaked.

The man's smile cracked across his face, revealing rows of perfectly white teeth. “Excellent work, Lucia.”

Lucia squeezed Therese's shoulder. “See, sweetie? You're so fortunate to have come to me. We're going to do whatever we can to make you happy. To make your wildest dreams come true.”

\--- --- ---

Therion shivered himself awake. He had kicked the blankets to the floor sometime in the night, and the chill of the morning had crept into the tiny inn room. It was still dark. He was alone.

He fumbled for a match to light the bedside candle. In the tiny light, he dressed, mostly to shut out the cold, and thought about stoking the little fireplace shared with the empty room next door. Instead, he snatched up the candle, and made his way down the hall.

He counted doors until he found the one he knew was Cyrus’. He didn't knock or try the knob; he just pulled out his bent pin and worked at the lock. It opened with little resistance, and the door swung open.

Cyrus, in his trousers and shirtsleeves, was sitting on the bed looking up from the book open in his lap. But Therion's brightness at seeing him was cut short as he noticed Primrose, arms crossed with her cloak wrapped around her, standing between the bed and the fire.

Therion frowned at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask the same of you,” the dancer said.

“The door was open.” Cyrus frowned. “You could have just knocked and come in.”

Therion let the door slam shut behind him. “I would hate to interrupt any secret night time meetings,” he said spitefully.

“Oh my Gods,” Primrose complained. “Are you drunk again, or is this sober irrational jealousy?”

“It's nearly dawn,” Cyrus said. “Barely night time.”

“That's the part you have a problem with,” Therion said. The scholar looked at him blankly. 

“Cyrus is teaching me magic,” Primrose said. 

“Magic,” the thief said flatly.

“Yes,” Prim insisted.

“So there's six different elemental schools of magic,” Cyrus began. Therion had already learned to recognize his lecturing voice, so he knew he could let his attention fade in and out. He narrowed his eyes at Primrose, who turned up her chin at him. “Fire, ice, and lightning have very similar mental processes involved, at least from my perspective. But the other three are trickier. Light depends on faith, wind… well, there's debate over what wind draws from, but some say a sort of vigor for life, or some say spirit, but dark magic-- and don't let the name of the element fool you, it's not evil, merely the elemental opposite of light-- it relies on physical movement to be effective.”

“Physical movement,” Therion repeated.

“Like dancing,” Prim said.

“I thought she would be well suited to learn it,” Cyrus explained. “Goodness knows I'm wretched at it.”

“Before dawn,” Therion said.

“We all went to bed early,” Primrose shrugged. “And you're up.”

Therion's eyes darted from one to the other, then he sighed. “Whatever.” He sank down into a chair next to the bed. Cyrus had draped his cloak over the back of it. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

“We need to go back to Bolderfall,” Therion said finally.

“I thought you said you didn't wish to go back there,” Cyrus said.

“That's in the Cliftlands,” Primrose said.

“Yes, and yes,” Therion sat up. “I don't want to. But I have to.” He looked at Cyrus. “Or else bad things are going to happen.”

“What--” Cyrus began, but Primrose cut him off.

“That's on the other side of the continent! And closer back the way we came!”

“Yeah,” Therion said. “We'll have to backtrack.”

“No,” Primrose said defiantly. “I will not go back there.”

“Then don't come.” The thief shrugged.

“Therion,” Cyrus cautioned.

“No,” he said. “The deal was she'd come with us until we were out of the Sunlands.” He waved his hands at their surroundings. “Quest fucking completed. We're done.”

Prim looked at him sternly, jaw set.

“Well now,” Cyrus said, placatingly, “it is possible to go to Bolderfall by way of Stillsnow, is it not?”

Therion shook his head. “Not within the time limit.”

“Who has given you a time limit?” Cyrus frowned.

“Besides,” Prim shot daggers at the thief, “if you're that threatened by me, maybe it's best we go our separate ways.”

“I'm threatened by you?” Therion scoffed. “Don't make me laugh.”

“Please. You know the sort of people I used to work with, and I can safely say you are the most insecure little man I've ever met.”

“What did you just call me?” Therion jumped to his feet.

“You heard me, short stack.” 

“Stop this,” Cyrus was on his feet, a hand held out in front of each of them. “It's counterproductive and one of you is bound to say something you'll later regret.”

“Doubt it,” Primrose scoffed.

“Things were just fine before you, they'll be just fine after,” Therion snapped at the dancer.

Cyrus pressed his fingertips together in front of his chest, breathed deeply, then moved to the chair Therion had risen from, stepping into his shoes.

“Where are you going?” Primrose asked.

“I have business to attend to and inquiries to make at some of the more well known book binderies in town. That is, in fact, why we came here.” He snatched up his cloak. “Additionally, I am less than fond of confrontation. You two are adults, despite your inclinations to act otherwise, so I suggest you sort out your differences.” He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, and turned back to them. “And if either one of you inflicts bodily harm on the other, my disappointment will be immeasurable and irreconcilable.”

Primrose and Therion were left staring at each other, seething.

“You really know how to screw things up, don't you?” Primrose muttered. She started gathering up the little bag of belongings she had brought in with her.

“Maybe there's too many of us doing the screwing,” Therion shot back.

Primrose shook her head at him. “Maybe there's nothing there, and you're sabotaging yourself because you don't really want to be happy. Or if something goes wrong, you can blame someone other than yourself.”

Therion bit his lip to keep her words from really hitting him. “This is why I work alone. Other people are too complicated. Too annoying. You think you can trust someone, and then they show who they really are.”

Prim slid the bag over her shoulder. “Fine. I'll tell you what you want to hear, then. Yes. I fucked him. The whole time you were lying half dead in that bed, we were screwing each other's brains out. Right next to you. I rocked his world. I satisfied him in ways you can't even imagine. There. Happy?”

Therion concentrated all of his effort into keeping his voice steady. “You're lying.”

“Of course!” Primrose threw up her hands. “But you won't trust the truth when it smacks you in the face. So believe whatever you want. Whatever makes you more miserable, because evidently, that's what you're going for. You're an emotional masochist.”

“You're…” But Therion couldn't think of an insult.

“Goodbye, Therion. Good luck hating everyone. You'll find the world is a lonely place when you shut everyone out.”

And with that, she was gone.

\--- --- ---

Therion went back to his cold inn room, crawled into bed, and wrapped the blanket around him. The sun had risen by now, but he didn't have any desire to be awake. Primrose's parting words echoed through his mind. The image of her and Cyrus together wouldn't fade-- both what he had actually seen, and what he imagined. As he faded into sleep, his thoughts fueled his dreams.

In his dream, he saw Cyrus and Primrose. They were dancing, like in the inn in Wellspring, except dream Cyrus could actually dance. They moved together gracefully, beautifully. Cyrus had that smile that Therion loved to see, but it wasn't for him. 

Therion rolled over and the dream changed. Primrose was still dancing, but not _with_ Cyrus, _for_ him. He sat in a chair, wearing the mask he had at the Black Market. Primrose was on stage, like she had been, but the scholar was the only one in the audience. Therion himself was there, but he was trapped, somehow, watching from behind a stack of crates. Try as he might, he could not move. He could not speak. He could only watch.

Primrose had twirled down from the stage now, shaking her hips as she crossed the hazy dream space. She was straddling his lap, a sultry smile on her painted lips, her fingers caressing the scholar's neck and chest as she rocked her hips against his thigh. She slid off the mask. Cyrus had that same mystified expression he had when he first saw her dance in Sunshade. 

Arching her back, Primrose peeled off her top, freeing her breasts. Cyrus’ hands snaked up her back, pulling her body towards him. His face was buried in her chest. Therion felt the jealousy shoot through him, but despite his efforts he couldn't do anything but watch. The scholar's hands curled down around the dancer's ass, and he swore he could feel it-- the same motion when he had been with Cyrus in the woods. His nerves tingled as the dream cast him in both the role of Primrose as well as the frustrated voyeur.

The dancer's skirt had disappeared, and she was working Cyrus free of his trousers, stroking the length in her hand. Therion could feel it. He watched them share that smile, he'd seen it before. They had this connection that he hadn't understood. Maybe it was something beautiful people understood. Or people who had a sort of air of nobility about them had a certain connection. In his mind's eye, he watched her slide onto him, watched his cock disappear within her body, watches the pleasure overtake their expressions. Another connection he couldn't understand. She started moving, rocking, riding him, as their lips and hands roved each other's bodies. Therion felt hollow.

Therion's subconscious fought against the images, his sleeping face screwed up in discomfort, but he didn't wake up. Instead, the dream shifted. He was now lying in the bed in Wellspring, as he had when he was recovering. The apothecary’s medicine had put him under, made him unable to move. But this time he could see. Next to him on the bed were Primrose and Cyrus. He was behind her, his hands on the curve of her hips, thrusting inside her, as he had seen him with Odette. But this time, they were aware of him. Primrose looked over at him, smiled mischievously, licked her lips. Cyrus was too overpowered by his own pleasure to look at him, but it was the same expression he had that first night they had been together, that night that he had been his, and his only.

Therion, in the dream, could only shift his eyes away, and suddenly they were above him. Primrose’s hands on either side of his shoulders, her breasts jouncing above his chest with every movement of Cyrus’, who was still making love to her. Primrose looked down at him, pleasure obvious in her features, before she crushed her lips down against his. Therion felt the kiss that she had forced on him on Sunshade, and wanted to scream. He did, in the dream, though only a whimper escaped his lips in reality.

The dream shifted again, and they were in the tiny Stonegard inn room, Therion watching them reach the throes of climax, the dancer's legs wrapped around the scholar's waist, securing their bodies together. Cries of pleasure interspersed their panting breaths. Therion sensed himself, naked, on an expensive sofa. He looked up to see Cordelia Ravus sneering down at him.

“This is what you wanted to see, puppy? Is it painful enough for you? Does it make you feel like you're being punished enough for your crimes?” Cordelia's laugh echoed.

He sat up, jarred from sleep, gasping for breath. Cordelia's laugh still lingered.

\--- --- ---

Primrose visited the provisioner, glancing over her shoulder as she walked through the streets. She had felt safer with Cyrus and Therion, even if she hadn't entirely trusted them. _Be strong,_ she told herself. _You don't need them. Faith shall be your shield. That's all you need._

She had no real reason to stay in Stonegard. She had considered seeking out Cyrus, to say goodbye, but decided against it. He'd only try to convince her to stay. She needed no more distractions.

Primrose headed out of town, picking her way along the path. It wasn't well marked, and it didn't take her long to realize she was lost. She swallowed hard, trying to quiet the unease. It didn't work. She heard movement on the path ahead, and wasn't sure of she would prefer man or beast.

Two men appeared from the woods, one with an ugly scar down his cheek, both brandishing knives.

“Well what do ya know,” the one with the scar said. “Don't have your escort with you this time, do ya?”

“Stay back,” Primrose warned, her shaking fingers finding the hilt of her own dagger.

“Yeah, that mage is gone,” the second thug said. “Ain't fuckin’ around with no magic.” He rolled back his sleeves. Emblazoned on his forearm was a familiar tattoo. Primrose physically recoiled at the sight.

“Then I have bad news for you.” Primrose tried to keep her voice steady. Cyrus had said it wouldn't be as effective if her mind and body were not in tune. “Night ode, bring your shade!” She called, replicating the movements she had practiced with the scholar's guidance. A tiny flicker of purplish black appeared before the two attackers, and one jumped back as if he had stubbed his toe.

“Ow,” he said, then grinned up at the dancer. “Is that it, then?”

“Shit.” Primrose turned and ran. The thugs chased after her.

“We're just going to take you home, girlie!” The scarred one called after her. “All Helganish's girls belong to Master Rufus now!”

Primrose surprised herself with how quickly she was running. She hurdled over fallen logs and shrubs, thanking the stars she had thought to trade her sandals for sturdy boots. She heard the two men crashing through the foliage after her, cursing. They were far behind her, and trailing. She just had to outdistance them. She just had to endure.

The euphoria of escape came crashing down as her own body tumbled over an eroded riverbank. She tripped over a root and felt her ankle give way beneath her. She went crashing down the steep embankment, scrabbling to catch hold of roots or dried vines with no avail. She landed in the shadow of the river, a pitiful trickle this late in the season. The cold water splashed over her hands as she struggled to her feet. As soon as she put weight on her twisted ankle, she collapsed again. 

There was crashing on the embankment above her. The scarred crow splashed into the river before her, his blade glinting like his grin. Primrose groped for her dagger. It was gone.

“Looking for something?” the second crow had slid down behind her, and was holding her weapon in addition to his own. 

“Careful, she might try that magic again,” the scarred thug laughed. His partner joined him.

“You're coming with us now, girlie.” The second crow grinned. “No more messing around.”

“Oh, I think we could do with some messing around,” the scarred thug said, with a slimy smile. “Make sure the goods are still worth it.” He stepped towards Primrose.

“Yeah, wouldn't want to deliver a package if it's no good anymore,” the second one said.

Primrose stood, favoring her uninjured ankle, her mind torn in two directions. Part of her told her to bite, claw, kick, scream-- anything to keep from being taken back. They were stronger. They might kill her. A second part told her to keep her cool. She could talk her way out of this. She could give them what they wanted, keep them from hurting her physically, and they would deliver her right to their boss. But she would have to go through that journey-- and the many nights in between. 

The men approached warily from each side, while she still debated her options. Luckily, she didn't need to decide.

A blur of white and black fur leapt down from the embankment. Some kind of beast snarled and clawed at the man behind the dancer. Blood flowed from deep cuts across his chest as the creature landed gracefully, teeth bared and tail curling tight.

“Let fall thy weapons.” 

All three looked up to see a woman standing up on the bank, clad in fur, aiming an arrow at the scarred thug standing in front of the dancer. The one the beast had clawed was swearing and fuming. The scarred one's jaw dropped.

“Now,” the woman insisted. She loosed the arrow, and it grazed the crow's arm, cutting through cloth and drawing blood.

The man swore and grabbed his arm. He eyed the beast and the woman, both snarling at him.

“The next one goeth through thy heart. Droppen thy weapons and begone.” Her hard eyes didn't flicker.

“We'll settle this later, girlie,” the crow cursed, and took off running in the opposite direction. His partner scrambled up the embankment, the beast hissing at his back. The archer's gaze and arrow followed them until they were out of sight.

Primrose turned to the animal, which was barely an arm's length from her. A massive leopard with snow-white fur and black spots, that might outweigh her. She was too terrified to move, lest it turn on her.

“They haveth gone,” the woman said, lowering her bow. “Art thou alright?”

“The… the cat… is yours?” Primrose said, unable to take her eyes off the creature. She still hadn't moved. 

“That is Linde,” the woman said. “She shant hurtest thee unless she is threatened. She is my partner.”

The leopard seemed to relax, the fur on her back smoothing, her tail curling above her. Primrose was able to look away from the animal to the woman. Her face was stern, unforgiving, coldly beautiful. “I am H'aanit. Come. We will taken thee back to town.”

“I’m not going back to town,” Primrose said, stumbling towards the bank. “I… have somewhere I need to go. I've put it off too long.”

H'aanit nodded. “Something those men wanten to keep thee from doing?”

Primrose shook her head. “They don't know about it. They want to take me back to where I came from.” She watched the leopard clean her paws. “I… I was a dancer. In Sunshade. And I escaped.”

H'aanit nodded, understanding everything Primrose had left unspoken. Her face showed the first signs of softness. “Where dost thou travelest to?”

“Stillsnow.”

The leopard's ears perked up.

“The Gods jesteth,” the huntress said. “That is our destination as well.”

“Could I… do you think I could travel with you?” Primrose eyed the leopard's graceful power, the woman's skill with a bow. “I thought I was stronger than I was.”

“If thou dost not liest about thine origin, thou hast strength indeed. I hath heard of Sunshade.” The huntress watched the leopard, and nodded. “Linde trusteth thee. Comen with us.”


	17. Yvon's Birthplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrus makes some mistakes. Heck, everyone makes mistakes in this one.

Cyrus sat in the old bookbinder’s front room, trying his best to keep his facial expressions neutral. Yes, the story about his daughter's illness was tragic, and he had done the translations from the original tome to pay for the medicine, but once he had revealed who had given him the money for the work, Cyrus could barely stand to sit there and listen to fluffy stories about the man's daughter. He listened more for a chance to excuse himself politely from the conversation, but his mind was abuzz with the new revelations about Headmaster Yvon, about the stolen book, about his next steps. The man opposite him blathered on about his family, and Cyrus knew he was expected to care, but…

“My good sir, thank you so much for speaking with me, the information you have given me is invaluable.” Cyrus rose to his feet. 

The bookbinder seemed shocked. “Are you leaving? I'm sorry, I don't have visitors often. Can I get you some--”

“No, no, I really must be going, but you have my gratitude.” The scholar moved towards the door.

The bookbinder was on his feet, now, too. “But…” He looked hurt. Years of shutting himself off from the world to have Cyrus smooth talk his way in, and now he was leaving. The scholar didn't have time for that. He had a mystery to solve.

After a few more apologies, and wilfully ignorant of the effect he was having on the bookbinder, Cyrus was out the door and charging up the hill. He was aware again of the figure that had followed him around town in his investigations that morning. He walked onto a side path secluded enough to not be easily overheard, but still very visible from the street. He turned to face behind him, and cleared his throat.

“Would you like to introduce yourself, or shall I just continue to pretend that I am unaware that you are following me?”

The hooded figure jerked towards the shadows, but then realizing the charade was over, stepped forward towards Cyrus, lowering their hood. Cyrus recognized the woman's face, but couldn't attach a name to it right away.

“I always admired your powers of observation, Professor,” the woman said, untangling her long dark locks.

“The Headmaster's assistant.” Cyrus relaxed at the recognition. “Remind me of your name?”

“Lucia,” she said, walking towards him. “And I apologize for this… shady business. I wasn't sure if he had caught you under his influence or not.”

“He?” Cyrus prompted.

“Don't act unnecessarily dense,” Lucia said. She had closed in enough to whisper. “I fear the Headmaster has gone down a dark path. It started with that tome, and when I heard you were pursuing it, I feared you may have fallen into the trap of the dark arts yourself.”

“Perish the thought,” Cyrus assured her. “I have a strong moral compass.”

“Good,” Lucia said, taking his arm in hers. “Then I was hoping I could use your vast arcane knowledge and superior intellect to help me stop him. He's up to something devious, I'm sure of it.”

Cyrus basked in the flattery. “I was just about to investigate… I hear his childhood home is nearby.”

“That's just what I was about to suggest!” Lucia smiled. “Great minds do think alike!” She tugged on his arm to lead him up the hill.

“But fools rarely differ,” Cyrus said, planting his feet. He let his arm fall out of her grip.

“Come again?”

“The second part of that maxim,” Cyrus said. “Great minds…” he watched Lucia's blank face crumble in annoyed confusion. “Nevermind. Let us go.”

They started up the hill, apart this time. In the shadowy grove of chestnut trees across the road, Therion watched them go. He didn't recognize the woman, but he didn't like her familiarity with Cyrus. He wouldn't reveal himself yet. Sticking to the shadows, he followed them up the hill.

The house was grand, but had fallen into disrepair after years of neglect. Overgrown vines covered the surface, and the roof of the attached carriage house had collapsed. Cyrus frowned as he and Lucia approached the entryway.

“I suppose we can just let ourselves in?” Cyrus pondered aloud.

“Yvon is still in Atlasdam,” Lucia said, “so the house should be empty. Probably not even locked. Still…” she glanced up at the brooding facade, “it gives me the creeps. Could you go first?”

“But of course,” Cyrus said. He turned the knob, and stepped forward. “Fear is a primitive reaction to the unknown. Once rationalized, it can be harnessed to fuel pursuit of the truth. After ahhhh--!”

Cyrus plummeted down the trap door, pushed by Lucia. Laughing, she stepped around the pit, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Therion was too far down the hill to hear the scream.

Cyrus caught himself on all fours, before tumbling into a roll across the damp stone floor at the bottom of the pit-- probably the only way he could have landed without sustaining serious injuries from the fall. He stopped on his stomach, struggling to catch his breath. He pushed up to look at the two shadows looming from the edge of the pit.

“Not quite as bright as all that, eh Albright?” Yvon chuckled to himself, leering down.

“Clever,” Cyrus said, climbing shakily to his feet. “Though perhaps go with one you haven't used before.” He frowned, recognizing the second figure. “Though I'm particularly disappointed in you, Lucia.”

“So used to women stroking your ego that you don't even question it, huh?” Lucia grinned slyly.

“Stroking his something,” Yvon muttered.

“Please just inform me of your demands and spare me the jests, if you would,” Cyrus called up. “Surely you have some reason behind this ruse.”

“To rid myself of a decade long headache, once and for all,” Yvon sneered.

“Actually,” Lucia said, sweeping her hand onto her boss’ shoulder, “we do have a proposition for you.”

“No we don't,” Yvon stared at his assistant.

“This comes from higher up than you,” Lucia hissed. Yvon glowered. Lucia smiled down into the pit. “We are embarking upon a revolutionary undertaking. Unlocking the hidden secrets of the ancients! Awakening powers heretofore undreamt of in this realm! And we could use your mind to help us unravel the final barriers standing between us and the future. You could be among the first in this age to learn the long-forgotten secrets of history!” Lucia raised her arms triumphantly above her head.

“Lucia, you're going over the top,” Yvon said.

Cyrus was unimpressed. “You want me,” he pointed up to himself, “to help you,” he pointed up at Yvon, “do some research.”

“Essentially,” Lucia shrugged. “What do you say?”

“I'll pass,” Cyrus said.

“Good.” Yvon grunted.

“Why?!” Lucia yelled.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “There are scholars who believe in intellectual integrity. In the ability of knowledge to liberate and empower. In the responsibility of those who know, to teach those who are seeking to learn, and to safeguard the future of civilization and humanity itself.” Cyrus’ voice hit a peak of intensity, then it dropped. “And then there's Yvon.” Cyrus smiled up at them. “I'll pass.”

“Insufferable,” Yvon muttered. “Then you'll rot in this pit. Perhaps twenty four hours of solitude and darkness will help convince you to swallow your arrogance. Come, Lucia.”

The trap door above him closed with a shuddering finality. Only a tiny splinter of light shone between the panels, plunging the pit into darkness. 

“An interesting dilemma.” Cyrus muttered to himself. He found the nearest stone wall, feeling its surface for anything that might help him escape. He certainly had no plans to starve to death under his former boss’ childhood home. While he systematically searched the wall, shuffling forward a few steps to a new section, he pondered the likelihood that there would even be a trap door dungeon under a hillside mansion. Did it really see enough use for it to be worth the construction? Had people been condemned to die down here before him? Who even considers this an effective execution method? But, yet, here he was. 

As he rounded the third corner, beginning to grow concerned over the lack of available escape aids, he thought he heard a scratching at the wall. Inwardly groaning at the prospect of fending off hungry rats as he starved to death, he was nearly blinded when the ceiling opened up to the brilliant light of a lantern. 

“Professor?”

Cyrus peered through the fingers shielding his eyes. Therese peeked over the side of the reopened trap door. He laughed in relief. “Therese! What could you possibly be doing here?” He frowned. “You were supposed to go back to Atlasdam.”

“Professor, I couldn't! I heard some of what they were saying, and I couldn't let them do anything to hurt you!”

“Do… do they know you are here?”

“Miss Lucia let me stay here,” Therese said, “but they don't know that I know that you're here. I brought a rope. I can get you out of here.”

“Please do,” Cyrus said. “I believe there are rats.”

“Gross,” Therese said, moving away from the edge. “I’m going to tie this end around the staircase railing here…” After some effort, she returned. “Tied it tight.”

“Excellent!” Cyrus smiled wide. “Now throw me the end!”

“Well, you know…” Therese waggled the end of the rope. Cyrus’ face fell.

“Therese, be reasonable,” he said.

“If I'm risking betraying them to help you, there should be something you give me in return.” Her tone was cloyingly sweet. “And there is something that I want.”

Cyrus stared up at her. “...an escort back to Atlasdam?”

“The most clueless genius--” Therese muttered, but then composed herself. “I believe you know exactly what I want, Professor.”

Cyrus frowned. “I believe I might.”

“I want you,” Therese crooned.

“That is precisely what I feared.”

“And unless you want to find your own way out of that pit,” Therese waggled the end of the rope in her hand, “you'll agree to give me what I want.”

“Therese…” Cyrus shook his head. “You couldn't possibly be coldhearted enough to…” as he said this, he remembered who exactly it was who had gotten him fired, gotten him evicted, ruined his reputation and career. And it was certainly preferable to the other two options presented to him thus far: starve to death, or even worse, join Yvon in his misuse of the dark arts. 

As she watched Cyrus struggle with his morals, Therese was unaware of the third person in the room who had overheard much of the conversation. Therion had not gone through the front door, but had opted instead for one of the nearby windows with rotten shutters. He had crept down the hallway, and had reached the scene just as the scholar and his student's conversation had started. He recognized her, and distrusted her-- so he had lurked in the corner in case she would double cross Cyrus. He was sure he would turn her down, she would leave, upset, and he could simply help Cyrus out of that pit himself. He was so certain of this-- this girl was crazy, after all, and Cyrus should know better than to mess with crazy-- that he barely recognized the scholar's voice when he heard it say: “Fine. Throw me the rope.”

“Professor!” Therese squealed, and tossed the end of the rope down to him. 

Therion was stunned. _Had he just agreed to--?_ He leaned back against the wall, his jealous dream swirling again to the forefront of his memory. He watched the girl help Cyrus up the last few feet to the edge of the pit, the smile on her face, the genuine relief on Cyrus’. She threw her arms around him. The thief still held back. This is when the scholar would talk her out of it. He gently nudged her away from him, holding her at arm's length.

“Therese,” he said, his voice serious. “Listen to me.”

“Don't try to back out now,” she said. “I always thought you considered yourself a man of your word.”

“Yes, but--” Cyrus sighed. “You don't want this.”

“I know very well what I want,” Therese huffed, “and what I have wanted since I took that introductory course you taught last year.” She closed in to embrace him, but he stiffened his arms to hold her back.

“You don't want me,” he said, shaking his head. “You don't even know me.”

“Professor, I--”

“Exactly. You know Professor Albright. He's not me.”

“But I--”

Cyrus’ voice changed. It was still his, but it grew an edge to it Therion had only heard a few times before-- when he was arguing with the apothecary while he was recovering; and in Quarrycrest when he had taken over the mind control spell and mentally ordered that skinny merchant kid to turn the necromancer's face into a paste. It chilled Therion to his core. He held his breath as Cyrus continued.

“You're in love with a conceit. With your idea of me, as your professor. But you don't even know who I am.”

Therese stared at him, blankly. Her smile had vanished.

“Haven't you ever wondered why I haven't married, or even had a steady lover, for you to be outrageously jealous of? It's because I'm prideful, and selfish, and egotistical. I can make myself care nothing for others beyond what they can do for me. I’ve had thirty years of life to come to terms with that myself. The instant I feel I really know someone, have figured out who they are, they stop satisfying my curiosity. If they provide no more utility for me, I can't make myself care. I use people. That's who I am. You're in love with Professor Albright. He's just a facade, a charming act I’ve learned to put on in order to get what I want. I’m no longer him. I’m just… Cyrus.”

Therion sank against the wall, crushing his hand to his chest to try to steady his breathing. All those sweet words Cyrus had whispered when they were in bed together… Something had to be a lie. Odette had said something to him in Quarrycrest… _”You got bored of me…”_ And here Therion was, surrounded by mysteries he refused to talk about, a search for ancient magical relics… Plenty to be curious about. But it _felt_ so real… 

Something had to be a lie. 

“I don't believe you,” Therese said defiantly. Cyrus’ chin sank to his chest.

“I'm only trying to protect you, Therese,” he said. The sharp edge was gone from his voice. “This isn't what you want. I will only break your heart.”

Therion wanted to run. To scramble out the window he came in through, and not stop until he got… to Bolderfall, probably. His heart sank even lower at this thought.

Therese narrowed her eyes. “Even if I could get you access to the most powerful spells known to man?”

Cyrus frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Something I was going to tell you after you fell in love with me,” she shrugged. “They have the Tome of the Archmagus.”

Cyrus dropped his arms. She was no longer trying to push towards him. “That's a myth. It doesn't exist.”

Therese nodded. “They found it outside Duskbarrow.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Inconceivable. To say not only that the myths are real, but that Yvon-- of all people-- has found it--”

Therese stepped backwards, held her hands before her, fingers spread wide. She narrowed her eyes. Cyrus grew quiet as he watched her concentrate.

“ _Tenebrae Operire_ ,” she said, pronouncing each syllable with care. The room darkened, the candles each reduced to a tiny bud of flame. Between her hands, a vortex of pure blackness swirled, shimmers of purplish power around the edges. It sucked in light as it grew, and Cyrus was forced to take a step backwards, eyes wide, in awe at the power of the spell. Therese's concentration cracked, and the spell faded, light returning once again.

“How did you--” Cyrus could only stare.

“I stole a page from Lucia's notes,” Therese said, gasping for breath. The powerful magicks exerted a heavy physical toll. “She and Yvon had nearly cracked the cipher, I just completed it.” She rolled her eyes. “They think I'm stupid.”

Cyrus shook his head, still staring at where the magic had manifested between her hands. “You are many things, Therese, but stupid is surely not one of them.”

Therese beamed.

“And you know the location of the tome?”

She nodded. “I can probably take you right to it.” Then she smiled slyly. “For a favor.”

Cyrus shook his head slowly, stepping away from her.

_Tell her to get lost,_ Therion thought with all his might. He would have yelled it, too-- but he was paralyzed with two very distinct fears. First, that the girl would summon that ball of darkness again, and launch it at him, that would be the end of that. And secondly, that his presence wouldn't change Cyrus’ mind one bit. It was magic. It was _new, forbidden magic_. He knew Cyrus’ decision before he spoke it aloud, and he tried to ignore the gaping hole he felt where his chest had been.

“Alright,” Cyrus said slowly. 

It was Darius’ knife cutting him anew.

Therese squealed, and lunged at Cyrus, but he held her off with one hand on her shoulder. “But I see the tome first.”

“You think I'm lying?” Therese asked, shocked.

“You lied to get me fired,” Cyrus said flatly.

“I suppose I did,” Therese said. “I'm not now. Come on.” She took his hand, and led him down the hallway.

As the footfalls died away, Therion finally let himself exhale more than the quiet, shallow breaths he had been allowing himself. He clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle the bit of a sob that came at the end of it.

\--- --- ---

“I'm taking you to Lucia's study,” Therese said, expertly navigating the hallways.

“Might she be there?” Cyrus asked. The prospect of encountering them again so soon was rather unpleasant.

“She has a very routine schedule, and she gets cranky if she misses her lunchtime.” Therese shrugged. “We'll be fine.”

“How long have you been here?” Cyrus frowned.

“Well, I followed you to Sunshade, but then there was some commotion and I lost track of you. I knew you were coming here, though, and Miss Lucia found me the first day I arrived.” Therese stopped walking, and smiled back at him. “And then you arrived. Just like I knew you would.” She swayed forward, her hands trailing up his chest.

Cyrus removed her hands and looked at her flatly. “The tome?”

Therese's smile did not fade. “Right in here, Professor.” She motioned to the door they had stopped in front of.

Sighing, Cyrus pushed open the door and walked inside. After a few steps, he grew concerned that the room looked very little like a study. He noticed very few books, but there were lit candles already glowing about the room, encircling what seemed to be the focal point-- a large, ornate four post bed. He heard the door click shut behind him.

“This is the second time I've fallen for this ruse just today, isn't it?” Cyrus whirled to see Therese locking the door, a sly smile on her lips.

“You said I don't know you, but I do,” Therese said. “And I know you'll just keep coming up with excuses to try to break the promise you just made.” Her voice turned cold. “So I'm not going to let you.”

“Therese, please,” Cyrus began, but watched her hands as they slipped under the hem of her bodice, sliding a knife from a hidden sheath. He held up his hands in caution, eyes wide. “Hold on, let's just talk about this.”

She raised the sharp blade to hold it a hair from her own delicate neck. “I know what I want, Professor. And if I can't have it…”

“Don't do anything rash, now, Therese,” Cyrus spoke slowly and calmly, his eyes fixed on the weapon. 

“Because honestly, what's the point in living if the one you love won't ever give you a chance to prove it?” Therese twirled the handle in her fingers, each spin moving it back towards her neck again. Her cold eyes stared straight into his panicked ones.

“Therese, please,” Cyrus said, holding his hands out in front of him. “Put the knife down.”

“I'm sorry it had to come to this, but I really don't see any other way.”

“Therese,” Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the scene in front of him any longer. “Whatever you want. Just please,” he shook his head, “I cannot bear to see you hurt yourself.”

The knife clattered to the floor. “You do love me!” Therese swept towards him, arms open to embrace him. Cyrus felt crushed by her enthusiasm. He held her back enough to breathe.

“Though there may be a sight problem.” Therese's eyes narrowed as he continued. “I cannot guarantee that I will be able to…” he searched for polite words. “I may be… unable to sustain the arousal.”

“Because you don't think I'm pretty.” Therese’s face darkened.

“Because I see you as my student,” Cyrus said quickly, eyeing the knife still close to her foot. “It causes some confusion between brain and body.”

“I thought you might make an excuse,” she said, “so I brought this.” She pulled a small vial out of her bodice. Cyrus squinted at it. “The apothecary said it could sustain any man for hours.”

“You did think this through,” Cyrus said glumly, taking the vial from her.

“Drink it,” she insisted.

“Alright, but you need to make me a promise,” he said, his eyes flashing with intensity.

“Anything for you,” Therese gushed.

“If we do this, then you will go back to Atlasdam. Tomorrow.”

Therese met his eyes.

“And you will stay there to continue your studies, and you will not leave until you graduate.”

Therese nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you promise?”

“I swear.”

“And if your word is broken, I swear I shall never speak even a syllable to you again. Threaten whatever you like, I won't acknowledge it. Do you understand?”

Therese studied him, the seriousness of his expression. “I promise. To be with you is all I ever wanted. I just want to make my dream come true.”

“Alright.” Cyrus sighed. He uncapped the vial, sniffed the liquid, and downed it in one swallow. Therese smiled wide, and pressed forward into a hard, urgent kiss.

“Mmph!” Cyrus pushed her back. Therese furrowed her eyebrows. 

“You said you would!” she insisted.

“I did not agree to have my face eaten,” Cyrus said. “Softer, if you must.”

Therese pouted, considered, then pressed her lips to her professor's again, this time more gently. They parted sensually.

“There, now,” Cyrus said softly, with only a hint of irritation. “You see the difference?”

Therese smiled. “I'm so lucky to have a teacher like you.”

“Please don't,” Cyrus said.

She gave him a sideways look. “There is a specific way this is going to happen. I wrote about it in one of those stories I sent with you on your way out of Atlasdam. Did you read it?”

Cyrus paled. “I did not.”

“Doesn't matter. You can follow directions, I assume. First, you're going to undress me. And everytime you expose some new skin, you're going to kiss it.”

“Therese--”

“And you're not going to complain. That's not part of the story.”

Cyrus met her hard gaze, but his fingers moved to undo the laces of her bodice, sliding it from her shoulders. She watched his face as he avoided her eyes. He untied the fastenings of the lavender overskirt, letting it fall around her ankles, only the white lace beneath. Then he hesitated, knowing his next action would unveil some intimate part of her.

Therese took his hands and led them to the hem of her shirt, curling his fingers under, lifting with him. As the cloth rose over her head, the smooth, pale skin of her stomach and breasts was illuminated in the soft candlelight. He had seen her before, but that time he had been terribly drunk, and he had tried not to remember. She took his hands in hers again, placing them over her breasts, amd Cyrus realized he had been staring.

“Professor…” she teased coyly, and with a hand on the back of his neck, guided his lips down to her newly exposed skin. He touched a kiss between her breasts and realized, with growing shame, that he had not needed the apothecary’s drug at all.

His hands helped the petticoat and smallclothes slide off her hips, and he followed it down, kneeling before her and leaving his required kiss on the curve of her thigh. He untied her boots, sliding each one off of a delicately small foot, and slipped each stocking down her thin legs. He held her ankle like a fine lady's hand, kissing her leg as if it were that lady's wrist.

He looked up to meet her eyes and the satisfied smile on her lips. As he rose, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her bare body against him, and sinking into a kiss.

“That was perfect,” she breathed. 

She let her hands sink down to undo the clasps on his cloak. As that cloth fell away, Cyrus watched her fingers as she undid the ties on his vest. Her hands were shaking. He took one in his, pulling it away from his body. She looked into his eyes.

“You don't have to do it,” he said softly. “Even if you've convinced yourself, you still don't have to.”

Therese pulled her hand back to her bare chest. “This is what I want,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. 

She continued undressing him, until they both stood naked in the strange bedroom. His nerves registered her touch on the sensitive parts she exposed, but his mind refused to connect the sensation to his thoughts. His body betrayed him, his arousal obvious once his clothes were gone.

Cyrus watched her eyes sweep over his body, and he wondered what she was thinking. The Professor Albright of her fantasies might be very different than the Cyrus standing before her. Her vision was likely taller, more broad-chested, more muscular. Perhaps, without his clothes, she could truly see the age difference between them.

She stared at him. He tried not to give names to the tempest of emotions within him. If he refused to acknowledge them, they would stay fleeting, transient. Finally, she smiled.

“Carry me to the bed.”

Cyrus, feeling as if he was watching some entity possess his body, obliged. He scooped her up behind her knees and waist. She tossed her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. He set her down, and she pulled him on top of her. She took his hand in hers, sliding it over her chest.

“You are all I've ever wanted,” she whispered, her lips a breath away from his. She guided his hand down between her thighs. “Can you feel how much I want this?”

She forced his fingers inside her body. They slid easily into the warm, wet softness. She moaned in pleasure at the touch. 

“Can I tell you I'm nervous for this?” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “I've thought about it so much, I knew I wouldn't do this part with anyone else. I've been saving myself for you.”

Cyrus’ hand stopped, then he broke free of her grip. He leaned backwards enough to really look at her. “Therese, you don't want it this way. Your first should be someone special.”

“I want _you_. You're not listening to me.”

“ _You're_ not listening to _me_. This is a mistake.”

“I have dreamt about this too long for you to try to talk me out of it now!” she said, and with a sharp motion, rolled them both over. She straddled him on the bed. She pushed his arms back, pinning his wrists to the pillows. 

“I love you, Professor,” she said, eyes feverish. “I want to make you love me.”

She took his traitorous length in her hand, sliding the tip against the hot wetness of her sex. She settled her hips, pressing down to push it into her maiden tightness. He could feel the resistance within her body. Cyrus watched her bite her lip against the bit of pain, but she was determined. With a small gasp, she pushed her hips downward, and he felt himself slide past the resistance until he was entirely within her. He tried to separate the rational part of his mind with the surge of sensation of the warmth, the wetness, the pressure.

She slid off of him, touching the place she had saved for him. A few swirls of her virgin blood came away on her fingers. She smiled, fulfilled. Cyrus shook his head, sadly.

“You shouldn't have--” he began, but she crushed his words under her hand.

“I told you I know what I want,” she said. She slid herself onto him again, moving awkwardly, uncertainly. Cyrus only watched, trying and failing to deny the sensation. His breathing quickened and his hands curled around her thighs as she rode him with renewed fervor. She let out these tiny gasps of pleasure that he tried desperately to ignore. Finally, breathless, she slowed.

“I… can't anymore…” she said, and slid off of him onto the bed beside him. He felt her hands grasp for him, felt his muscles respond until he was on top of her, within her again. The rational part of his brain turned away in shame.

“I want you to ravish me, Professor,” Therese said, sliding her wrists under he hands, making it seem as if he were holding her down. “Don't hold back.”

He didn't. And he hated himself for it. Every breathy cry and gasp of hers built the pleasure within him. His lips teased at the smoothy perfect skin of her neck, her legs wrapped around him, pushing him further between her thighs. Her flawless body writhed beneath him, and he felt himself nearing that peak of no return.

He tried to pull away from her, just to find that she had wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, locking her ankles, pinning their bodies together.

“Therese!” he said as a warning, trying to stop moving, to keep from finishing inside of her. 

“Oh, Gods, Professor,” she moaned, thrusting herself against him, pushing him to the edge.

He couldn't keep it in any longer. He felt himself climax, all his muscles singing, while he was still inside of her. She waited until she was sure he had done so before she released her legs. 

Cyrus fell to the foot of the bed, away from her.

“That was a mistake,” Cyrus said, mild panic in his eyes. “You're young. There's a good chance--”

“I hope I fall pregnant,” Therese said, interrupting. She smiled and ran her hands over the wetness between her thighs. “Then you couldn't leave me. Nothing would make me happier.”

Cyrus just stared at her, shaking his head. The dark edge had crept back into his voice. “If you care about me as much as you say you do, then why are you trying so hard to make me miserable?”

Therese looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “You started the rumors that got me fired.”

“So you wouldn't talk to Princess Mary anymore.” Therese shrugged.

“I lost my career,” he said, trying not to raise his voice. “My reputation. My home. I grew up there. I've never lived anywhere else. Do you think I can go back to Atlasdam, knowing the things being said about me behind my back? ”

Therese sat up. “I didn't think--”

“No, of course you didn't,” Cyrus said, rising to start dressing. “And while I'm out here trying to keep busy until hopefully everyone at the Academy forgives and forgets, you're following me not only to remind me of my disgrace, but manipulate me into committing new ones.”

Therese hugged her knees to her chest. Her brow furrowed, as she seemed to be considering the situation from his perspective for the first time. The new tone in his voice was frightening her.

“And now you're actively trying to ruin my future,” Cyrus said, pulling on his shirt. “It's already unlikely that Yvon would ever reinstate me, but I have enough friends on the board that I might have made a petition. But if it turns out I've sired a child with a student?” he shook his head in disbelief. “It's over. I'm done. That's it.”

“But Professor…” Therese fought the waver of emotion in her voice. “I love you. This… this was supposed to make you love me.”

Cyrus looked at her, tiredly. “One cannot make someone fall in love. They come to that realization on their own. Just as one can teach, but cannot force someone to understand. They must realize for themselves that fantasy is fantasy. And reality has consequences.”

Therese stared ahead of her, thinking, unseeing. “What… what should I do?”

“Go back to Atlasdam,” Cyrus said. “Finish your studies.” He fastened his cloak. “And pray to Sealticge that this is the end of this.” 

“But Professor…”

“No, Therese,” he said, his voice hard. “We're done. I did what you asked. Now do what you promised. Go. Back. To. Atlasdam.”

“The Tome of the Archmagus,” she squeaked.

“I assumed that was another lie.”

Therese shook her head desperately, tears flowing freely now. “Headmaster Yvon has it. His…” she sniffled. “His workshop is in the cellar. The door downstairs is at the end of the hall.” She motioned to the right.

Cyrus hesitated, watching the tears stream down her cheeks. He dug in a pocket, and pulled out a small coin purse. “A carriage to Rippletide, and passage on a ship to the Flatlands,” he said, setting it on a dresser near the door. “Promise?” 

Therese nodded, wiping her eyes. “Professor,” she said, her voice heavy with remorse. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Cyrus looked at her sadly. He turned and headed for the door. Therese buried her face in a pillow and cried.


	18. Ardor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardor: enthusiasm or passion. From the latin ardere, to burn.
> 
> Cyrus starts some fires. One literal.

Cyrus stormed down the hallway of Yvon’s childhood home. Once he realized he was muttering to himself like a madman, he stopped, closed his eyes, and took three slow, controlled breaths. He used the time between his exhalations to sort away his thoughts. By the third breath, his features relaxed. His mind was calm and clear. The worries and emotions were locked away.

“You okay?”

Cyrus opened his eyes. “Therion?”

The thief stood before him in the dark hallway with a concerned frown on his face.

“I saw you come in here,” Therion said quietly. “I thought you might need help.”

“I did.” Cyrus nodded. 

“You were trapped in a pit,” Therion said. The scholar met his sharpened eyes. Without a single word being spoken out loud, Cyrus understood. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

“I--” Cyrus began. Therion looked at him expectantly. Cyrus avoided him. “My former employer and his assistant currently have access to two volumes’ worth of ancient arcane destructive magicks. I need to recover those tomes before the spells are used for nefarious purposes.”

“Sure you do,” Therion said. 

Cyrus finally looked at him. “I could use your assistance,” he said, “if you are willing.”

Therion stared at Cyrus for an awfully long time. He studied every detail of his face: the warm caramel of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his lower lip, the shadow of his cheekbone. He was angry, sure. But when confronted with that face...

“Sure. Whatever. Let's go fight your old boss.”

Cyrus smiled, and Therion melted. “We don't have to fight him,” the scholar said. “Just take his books.”

“Yeah, but knowing our luck.” Therion shrugged. 

“Right.” Cyrus clapped a hand on Therion's shoulder. The thief tried to pretend it didn't send a wave of warmth through him.

The pair descended into the cellar. Cyrus borrowed an old lantern from near the top of the stairwell and lit it with a fire spell. Therion stuck close to the scholar as they crept through the dank underground corridor.

“How come all of your adventures lead us into creepy dark underground places?” Therion asked.

“Shhh!” Cyrus hushed him. “There's light under that door.” He felt for the wall behind him, and waved a hand at the lantern. Ice appeared around the flame, extinguishing it with a hiss of steam.

“Hey!” Therion whispered, suddenly plunged into darkness. 

Cyrus grabbed for his hand in the dark. “We don't know if Yvon is in there,” he whispered. “He can't see our light, if he is.” Cyrus shuffled forward. Therion heard every footfall and cringed. He squeezed Cyrus’ hand to stop him.

“Balls of your feet,” Therion whispered. “Balance your weight. Shift slowly onto the front foot. Crouch down. Low center of gravity.” He could feel Cyrus appraising him in the dark. “I'm a professional, okay?”

They crept forward again, both utterly silent. When the reached the crack of light, they both stopped, listening. They couldn't hear any movement. Cyrus looked to Therion, the light from the door crack illuminating the question on his face. The thief nodded, confident, and snuck forward. He pressed on the door with one finger, just enough for it to creak open. Then he listened for movement. If anything stirred within the room, they would retreat back to the shadows. But he heard nothing. Therion nodded to Cyrus, then stepped in front of the door to peer inside the room.

Bookshelves and scientific instruments lined the walls. Some painful-looking apparatuses were positioned around the room, along with desks cluttered with parchments and tables covered with strangely glowing vials of liquid. A large blackboard seemed to be covered with the scribblings of a maniac. Several large, mean-looking rats squeaked from a metal cage across the room. But no other living things were within.

“This is creepy,” Therion said.

“This is astounding!” Cyrus said at his side. The scholar rushed to the blackboard, shaking his finger at the chalk scrawlings. “Do you know what this is?”

“A recipe for chicken pot pie,” Therion said dryly.

Cyrus gave him a sideways smile, shaking his head. “This is one of the spells. Deciphered!” He laughed, yanking a small notebook from his pocket. “Amazing.”

“Shouldn't we be looking for those books?” Therion asked.

“Yes, Cyrus, shouldn't you be looking for those books?” A deep voice sounded from a far corner of the workshop. Headmaster Yvon stepped out from behind a bookshelf, which must have concealed a hidden doorway. “Instead of plagiarizing the work of those who reached the knowledge before even you.”

Cyrus whirled, flashing a sly grin at Yvon. “Show me the remainder and we'll see who can decipher it faster.”

Therion unsheathed his dagger. “So we messing this nerd up now, or what?”

“Not quite so fast,” Yvon said, and tugged a struggling figure out from the hidden passageway. Therese, hastily dressed, crying and gagged with her hands tied behind her back, stumbled out into the room. She flashed a panicked look at Cyrus.

“Hostages, really?” Cyrus tsked. “I thought you above that, Yvon.”

“So now _you're_ going to lecture me about ethics and morality.” Yvon rolled his eyes.

“This is between you and I, Yvon,” Cyrus squared up to face him. “Leave the girl out of it.”

“So I toss the girl aside, and you call off your mutt, and we settle this with a good old fashioned wizard's duel?”

“Precisely!” Cyrus’ eyes shone.

“Hey!” Therion shouted, offended.

“Therion, it's fine,” Cyrus said. “But stand aside.” He motioned deliberately with his eyes towards Therese, added a pleading inclination of his eyebrows. “Things might get a little messy.”

Therion sighed.

“We'll settle this like gentlemen,” Cyrus nodded to the Headmaster.

“No fire, though, eh Cyrus?” Yvon sneered. He pushed Therese to the side and stepped out into the room. “Awful lot of valuable, flammable knowledge in here that the survivor will want to keep, no?”

Cyrus mouthed the word ‘survivor’. “To the death, then,” he said slowly.

“Is there any other way?” Yvon grinned.

“Cyrus,” Therion warned, watching the overconfident smirk on the Headmaster's face.

Cyrus glanced up at the scribblings on the blackboard. “I _cannot_ fail!”

“We'll see about that!” Yvon shouted. “Have at you!” A stream of ice shot towards Cyrus. He threw his hand towards it, lightning arcing from his fingertips to shatter the frozen chunk into a thousand tiny sparkles that floated down between them. Cyrus leaned into the momentum and whirled his other hand towards the Headmaster, lighting flashing, cloak billowing behind him. 

“Nothing shall quiet the storm!” Cyrus yelled, caught in the fervor.

Therion dropped to the floor as ice, lightning, and the Gods knew what else flew through the air between the two scholars. He crawled forward on his elbows towards Therese, who was squirming against her bonds. 

“Shhh,” he hissed at her, making sure the scholars were still distracted by trying to kill each other. He sliced into the rope binding her hands behind her back. “Godsdamned magical nerd battle going to get us all killed for no reason,” Therion muttered.

Therese screamed, muffled by the gag in her mouth. She jerked to the side, pulling Therion with her, just barely dodging a shard of ice that shattered on the wall behind them.

“Shit,” Therion scrambled backwards, wide eyed, watching the magic hurtle through the air. Therese struggled with the weakened ropes on her wrists.

“For shame, Cyrus,” Yvon sneered at Therion. “Sending your mongrel to steal my hostage.”

“The hell do you have against me, man?” Therion threw up his hands.

Yvon shook his head. Half of his cloak and mustache had been singed off from electrical burns, and he dragged his left leg lamely as it suffered from minor frostbite. Cyrus was breathing heavily, but looked like he had the upper hand.

“You gave a good show, Albright,” Yvon said. “But the real fight starts now.” He pulled something from his pocket and held it aloft to glint an ominous red in the lamplight. “Witness now the power I have recovered… from the far reaches of Hell!” 

Yvon focused his magical energy into the blood crystal in his hand. He screamed as the power surged through him. His skin pulsed and darkened as he began to swell. The scream turned into a powerful belly laugh as Yvon's body grew into a monstrous purple beast. His clothes tore and his voice deepened as he roared with dark power.

Therion stared at the monster, jaw dropping. “I'm done. I'm out. No way.”

Cyrus watched the beast fling back his arms in a show of rage, toppling bookshelves and worktables. He stood his ground, eyes shining as the monster loomed over him. “Now the true lesson begins.”

“Professor!” Therese shrieked, finally working free of her bonds and wrenching the gag from her mouth.

“Not now, Therese.”

“The tomes are in Duskbarrow!” she called.

This time she caught Cyrus’ attention. “So then this workshop…?”

“Nothing of value!” Therese yelled. Cyrus grinned wide. He turned to the scribblings on the blackboard.

“What does that mean?” Therion scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Therese's arm. “Why's he smiling like that?”

“Time to go,” Therese said, scampering around the edge of the room. 

“What does _that_ mean?!” Therion hurriedly followed.

“THE TIME HAS COME, ALBRIGHT,” the beast growled. “PREPARE FOR YOUR END!”

Cyrus planted his feet and spread his arms wide. The magical power coursed through him, lifting the hem of his cloak, the loose strands of his hair. He smiled wide.

“ _IGNIS ARDERE!_ ” Cyrus proclaimed, his voice echoing through the cellar. 

The workshop burst into flames.

Scrolls, parchments, books, chemicals-- everything flammable ignited at once. The beast that was Yvon was caught in the middle of it all. It howled in agony.

Therion did not have to be told twice to run. He was sprinting past Therese, stopping only once the air around him was no longer searing his lungs. 

“Cyrus!” he screamed.

Cyrus came crashing through the haze of flame, Therese at his side, sheltered under his cloak. 

“Keep running!” Cyrus yelled, and the three were dashing through the cellar, up the stairs, and out the front door. A beastly scream echoed behind them.

They scrambled down the hill just in time for the first columns of smoke to appear above the mansion. This is when the situation caught the attention of the townsfolk.

“We gotta get out of here,” Therion nudged Cyrus. The scholar watched as the sky above them darkened with smoke from the cellar fire. Cyrus looked down at his hands.

“The power, Therion,” he whispered, eyes shining.

“The jail time,” Therion said. “We need to go now.”

“Right,” Cyrus nodded. “Where's Therese?”

They looked around at the growing crowd of gawkers. The girl had vanished.

“Don't worry about her,” Therion said.

“It's my job to--” he stopped when he saw Therion's stony glare.

“Maybe you worried about her enough for today,” he said quietly.

Cyrus met his eyes. Therion turned and headed down the hill. 

Cyrus looked once more at the burning building, then followed.

\--- --- ---

When Cyrus asked about Primrose, Therion's only response was that she had left on her own. They collected their things from the inn and set out on the westbound path in complete silence. Neither of them spoke until they realized they had taken a wrong turn, and were hopelessly lost. Still, it took another hour of random wanderings before either of them would admit it. Finally, Cyrus spoke up.

“I think we're lost,” he said quietly.

“Genius observation, as always.” Therion planted himself down on a boulder. 

The scholar sighed. “Perhaps we should talk about this.”

“Why? So you can get your answers and lose interest?”

“Therion.” Cyrus looked hurt.

The thief stood and studied a nearby tree. “Moss grows on the north side of a tree, right? So that means we have to go this way.” Therion started off in his chosen direction.

“That's not entirely accurate,” Cyrus said.

“What?”

“The… the moss thing.” Cyrus’ tone was sullen. “There are lots of factors. Moss, and most lichens, prefer shady, damp conditions, but with the shadows of these hills and the fact that we're sort of in a valley currently, you can't depend on it.”

Therion threw up his hands. “Well, shit.” He started off in the direction he had pointed out anyway.

“That's not necessarily--” Cyrus called after him.

“I'm picking a random direction,” Therion shouted back. “Feel free come up with a better id--” The thief's footfalls halted. There were a few moments of silence. “Cyrus, there's a guy.”

“Ask him for directions.”

“I… I don't think he's okay.” 

Cyrus trotted after Therion to investigate. He found him looking into a small clearing. In the center, there was a man who seemed frozen in time. It seemed as if he were in the middle of fighting something off-- but he didn't move. He was stuck mid-strike.

“Sir?” Cyrus called out, and Therion shook his head. The scholar moved forward to investigate, but the thief caught his arm.

“I don't like this,” Therion said.

“He might need help,” Cyrus explained. He went closer.

The man was of middle age and dressed in furs, with a longbow strapped to his back and an axe in his hand. Cyrus waved a hand in front of his frightened eyes. They stared, unblinking. The scholar poked the man's cheek. There was no response.

“Don't touch it!” Therion protested. Cyrus shook his head in confusion, placing his hand flat on the man's cheek.

“He's cold,” the scholar said. 

“Is he dead?” 

Cyrus frowned. “How could he be standing upright like this?” He pressed his fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. He was still for a long time.

“Anything?” Therion asked.

“Perhaps…” Cyrus said slowly. “I feel that there may be something there, but it's faint. And very slow. Still, he shows no signs of decomposition. It's almost as if…” Cyrus frowned.

“What?”

“He's been petrified.”

Both turned in response to a growl from the woods. A gigantic, dark wolf edged in on them from the trees, teeth bared. Therion grabbed his dagger, but was pretty sure it wasn't going to do him any good.

“Cyrus, zap it or something,” he hissed.

The scholar had raised his hands, and was backing away slowly. “It's just an animal. We're most likely in its territory,” he whispered. “Back away. You'll trigger its predator instincts if you--”

The wolf growled and lunged forward. Therion turned and ran.

“Therion!” Cyrus yelled, but before he could rationalize it, he was running after the thief himself.

The wolf stopped chasing them at the end of the clearing, but the pair kept running until they collapsed at a crossroads, breathless.

Therion braced himself against a post, staring behind him. “Biggest wolf I've ever seen,” he gasped. “Did it stop?”

Cyrus glanced back at the woods. “It seemed… It seemed he was guarding that man.” He tugged off his cloak, fanning his collar. “He looked like a hunter, right? You don't suppose…?”

The thief studied the post he was leaning on, reading the crude sign tacked on with an old nail. “Good news, though. I found the road.”

Cyrus read the sign.

Cobbleston  
Just ahead

\--- --- ---

They found the inn in Cobbleston when they arrived later that afternoon-- it wasn't difficult, as the entire town seemed to be comprised of about half a dozen actual buildings, the rest farmhouses and livestock barns. Cyrus requested two beds without even asking. Therion didn't object.

The innkeeper handed them the keys, and they walked down the hall in silence. 

“We need to have a conversation,” Cyrus said, turning his key in the lock.

“Why.” Therion didn't voice this as a question.

“Please?” Cyrus said. He opened the door, and met Therion's eyes. “Please come inside.”

Therion sighed. “I don't like talking.” He walked past Cyrus into the room anyway. There was very little in the room-- a hearth, a bed, a wash stand, and a table with an oil lamp. Therion hoisted himself up to sit on the table. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Cyrus shut the door and waved his fingers to absently ignite the hearth. Then he settled his gaze on Therion. “About this. About us.” He frowned. “About what's happened.” 

“You mean about Primrose kissing you and storming off when I called her out for it? Or about that stalker chick you agreed to jump in bed with?”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps about your alcoholism, or the seemingly random mood swings, or the fact that you bullied Primrose away, or the metal ring on your genitals that reads ‘Property of House Ravus.”

Therion stared at him, then shifted off the table. “Fuck you.”

Cyrus reached for his arm. “I apologize, that was uncalled for. Please talk to me.”

“And what?” Therion whirled. “Pour my heart out, and all of my secrets, and all of my humiliation, just so you can get bored with me and move on?”

“Bored…?”

“Yeah. I heard you. You're interested now. You're intrigued. But once your mysteries are solved, you'll move on. So I can't tell you anything. Because as soon as I do, you'll just toss me aside. Like trash.” Therion's voice grew quiet. “Like everyone else has.”

“Therion…”

His eyes were bright. “You told me you wouldn't sleep with Primrose because you thought it would hurt me. And then you chose to just go all in with that crazy girl right away.”

Cyrus shook his head, visibly confused. “First of all, those are two very different situations.” 

“You fucking some chick. Explain how they're different.” Therion crossed his arms.

Cyrus folded his hands. “To begin with, you know Primrose. She traveled with us. It would unnecessarily complicate our journey together. And she’s a rational human being. Compared to a girl you don't know, who I was trying to convince to go back to Atlasdam, and who threatened to kill herself if I didn't do what she asked!”

“Should have let her,” Therion muttered.

Cyrus shook his head. “She's misguided. She's not evil.”

“Whatever. You agreed to do it before I heard any threats.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “I was stalling. Hoping an opportunity would present itself.”

“You lied,” Therion said firmly.

Cyrus sighed. “There are different natures of truths, Therion. Some are meant to protect--”

“You lied. You lied to her, you've lied to me. After all of your talk of truth and knowledge and lofty bullshit like that.” Therion sighed. “I steal, sure, but I'm not a Godsdamned liar. Never to anyone who matters.”

“I have never lied to you,” Cyrus said earnestly.

“Unless you're lying about that!”

“I have never lied to you. How can I prove it?” Cyrus’ eyes were pleading.

Therion hardened his jaw. “You can't.”

“Therion. Therion, look at me.” Cyrus put his hands on Therion's shoulders. “I would walk to the edges of this continent and back with you. I would fight until my last breath against anyone who was trying to hurt you. This journey has been one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life because of you. I am human. I make mistakes. I have regrets.” Cyrus was looking into his eyes with that intensity that was borderline frightening. “All of those statements are true.”

Therion stared, shaking his head. He brushed Cyrus’ hands off of his shoulders. “You use your words, you make it sound so flowery and flashy. That's how you do it. There has to be a word for it. For talking too much to hide the lies.”

“Obfuscation,” Cyrus said, despite himself.

“Exactly!” Therion threw up his hands.

Cyrus sighed. “Alright.” He sat on the bed. “Ask me any yes or no question. I'll only answer yes or no. No lies, because I have never and would never lie to you. No equivocation. No obfuscation. Only the truth. I swear on my honor as a scholar.”

Therion narrowed his eyes. “Fine.” He hoisted himself up on the table again, legs dangling. “Did you fuck that girl? Your stalker?”

Cyrus sucked in his lower lip and dropped his eyes. “Yes.”

Therion absorbed the emotional blow, but at least he knew Cyrus was being honest. “Did you want to?”

“No. The situation got out of my control.”

Therion nodded, turning the answer over in his mind. “Did you enjoy it?”

Cyrus hesitated.

“You said you would answer.”

Cyrus held up a hand. “Mentally, no. Emotionally, no.”

“You said only yes or no.”

“Physically, yes.” Cyrus met his eyes. There was undeniable shame there. 

Therion looked at his feet. _It wasn't his fault._ “What about all that shit you told her? About being a fake person. Is that true?”

Cyrus inhaled slowly. “A certain percent--” Therion looked up sharply. “Essentially yes. Moreso in Atlasdam. Surviving in academia requires a certain… political savvy.”

“Yes or no.” Therion shook his head. “Did you fuck Primrose?

“No.” Cyrus said firmly.

“Did you want to?”

Cyrus considered.

Therion raised an eyebrow.

“No, I don't think so.” He laughed. “I was already with you.”

“You were… attracted to me in Sunshade.” Therion said slowly.

“Yes.”

“...Quarrycrest?”

“Yes.” 

“Noblecourt?”

Cyrus pondered. “Yes,” he decided.

Therion cracked the hint of a smile, then shook his head. “And you never once showed a hint of it, because you're so good at being you.” He slid off the table. “You don't understand the effect you have on people. That's the issue. With all of it.”

Cyrus sank. “Therion, I'm sorry. I didn't realize--”

“No. You didn't.” Therion crossed to the door. “I just need some time.”

\--- --- ---

The pin worked in the lock, clicking the tumblers one by one until the knob could turn, and the door creaked open. Cyrus looked up slowly from the book open in his lap. He lounged on the bed in only his white shirt after he had givn himself the most satisfactory bath he could with a washcloth and a basin. Anything to try to wash away the memory. His hair fell loosely around his shoulders. He stuck a finger in the book and closed it, turning to the figure in the doorway.

“Therion?” 

“No talking,” the thief said, shutting the door behind him. “We've done enough talking.”

Cyrus set the book aside, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed. Therion crossed the room, pulling off his scarf and tunic and tossing them aside.

“You're bad for me,” he said, kicking off his boots. “But that's the only kind of person I know how to be with.”

Cyrus shook his head, watching him. “I don't want to be bad for you.”

“I said no talking,” Therion snapped. He stood before the seated Cyrus, looking down on him. “And maybe I am an emotional masochist, and I don't know how to be happy, and all the other shit Primrose said about me. And you're probably just going to hurt me.”

Therion’s fingers brushed against the side of Cyrus’ face, down his neck. Cyrus took Therion's hand in his own, holding it to.his chest. Therion sighed. “I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop wanting you. I can't stop chasing that high I feel when I'm with you. I… can't… stop.”

He kissed Cyrus then, urgently, feeling that rush he craved. The scholar's hands traced up Therion's back, pulling him into the kiss. 

The thief pulled away. Cyrus brushed the hair back from Therion's face.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Cyrus whispered. “I just know how this always ends. I don't quite understand other people--”

“I said no talking.” Therion nudged Cyrus’ shoulders, sending him falling back onto the bed, his hair falling loose across the blanket. Therion climbed over him, burying him under his kiss. The scholar's arms wrapped around his shoulders. Therion forced himself to pull away.

“So, even if we're both terrible people, and we’re both really fucked up.” He ran his hands under Cyrus’ shirt, feeling his chest, tugging the fabric up over his head. “At least we get to be fucked up together.”

“I would like nothing more,” Cyrus breathed.

“What part of ‘no talking’ do you find so difficult to understand?” Therion said, but he smiled. Cyrus pulled at the fastening of the thief's trousers.

They shifted on the bed, Therion's lips buried in the scholar's neck, Cyrus’ hands across the thief's body. Therion kissed down Cyrus’ chest as the scholar pulled off his undershirt. The thief stopped at Cyrus’ waist, his fingers curling around the hardening arousal he found there. He stroked it slowly, looking up at Cyrus.

“I don't blame you,” he said quietly. Cyrus looked down, brushing the thief's hair back from his forehead. “For what happened. It's her fault, not yours.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I'm supposed to be the responsible one. I should have known better. I should have understood the influence I had--ah!”

Cyrus gasped as Therion took him into his mouth, pressing deep. Therion held it for a bit, then slowly slid his lips back up the length.

“I talked, I apologize,” Cyrus said, smiling. Therion looked up at him mischievously, and wrapped his lips back around the scholar's arousal. 

Therion sucked, concentrating on Cyrus’ pleasure. The scholar threaded his fingers through Therion's hair, watching him with those warm eyes. The thief took the slick length in his hand so that his lips could slide further down. He dawdled there for a while, teasing, while he shifted Cyrus' legs apart. Then his tongue went lower still, toying with the sensitive opening. Cyrus groaned and shivered. Therion took this as encouragement. He concentrated his efforts before creeping a hand over Cyrus’ thigh, between his legs. He traced a finger around the edge once before sliding it in.

Cyrus gave a little gasp that Therion hadn't heard before, but he found irresistible. The scholar's eyes were squeezed shut, a flush across his cheeks, his lips parted. One of Cyrus’ hands touched his own chest, the other flung over his forehead, as if it were all too much. Therion worked one hand over the scholar's cock, the other had a finger inside him. He soon added a second, pressing and stretching. Cyrus pushed into it, welcoming it.

Therion stopped stroking to wet his fingertips in his mouth, swirling the wetness over the head of his cock. He touched it questioningly against Cyrus’ entrance, hesitating. The scholar's eyes opened dreamily, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Therion bit his lower lip and slipped within the scholar's body.

He shut his eyes as the tight warmth enveloped him. He moved slowly so that sensation wouldn't overwhelm him, each time edging a little deeper. Eventually, he was in to the hilt, riding the waves of his pleasure, moving carefully so it didn't build too quickly. He wanted it to last all night if it could.

He opened his eyes, smiling contentedly down at Cyrus, when he noticed a thin, shining line of wetness trailing down from his eye to the pillow. Therion stopped, holding Cyrus’ face, brushing back the tear.

“You okay?” Therion whispered urgently. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“Don't stop,” Cyrus said, a faint smile on his lips. “Please.” He ran a hand down Therion's neck and shoulder.

Therion kissed him, and started pushing within him again. He slid his hand between their bodies, stroking Cyrus to the same rhythm as his movements. They broke apart, both panting. Therion felt the pleasure growing within him with a new intensity, as Cyrus kissed and sucked at his neck and collarbone, the scholar's hands urgent on his back and shoulders. 

Therion felt himself pulled over the edge, moaning into Cyrus’ ear, releasing into his body, hard and total. He felt his spent muscles slacken, but he fought his way down to close his lips around Cyrus’ cock, to bring him to the same satisfaction. It didn't take long. He swallowed the seed and the collapsed next to Cyrus, both of them breathing hard.

The scholar pulled Therion to him, holding him. They stayed like that for a while, locked in an embrace, before they leaned apart.

“Can I talk now?” Cyrus asked, his arm still around the thief.

“Yes or no only,” Therion said, shifting to face him on his side. He spread his fingers over Cyrus’ bare chest. “Was that good for you?”

Cyrus leaned up to leave a kiss on Therion's forehead. “Yes.”

“I could do that again? I mean, not right now, but--”

“Yes.”

Therion laid his head down over Cyrus’ heart, listening to the beating within. “You really wanted me in Noblecourt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You said only yes or no,” Cyrus reminded him.

“Now you follow the rules.” Therion laughed. “That's okay. It’s pretty obvious. You're attracted to my relentless wit and humor.”

“Yes,” Cyrus said, smiling.

Therion grinned. “And you've never before met such a skilled, world-class thief, and deep down you've always wanted to break the rules and say ‘fuck it’ to society's boring expectations.”

Cyrus laughed. “Yes.”

“And you think I have a cute ass.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Therion grinned and kissed him, pulling the blankets around them both. He fell asleep listening to Cyrus’ heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I like how these last two chapters came out (it was originally supposed to be one chapter, but whatever). Maybe it's because I just really like Cyrus? But, no one's allowed to be perfect or happy in this story. I might revise these two at some point after enough time has passed that I can look at it with new eyes. 
> 
> What are all of your thoughts?


	19. Road to Rippletide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primrose and H'aanit head northward. Primrose remembers her old life.
> 
> I guess there's some _implied_ underage stuff in here, but honestly, no more than the game itself implies. ('Cause like, she's canon 13 when she goes to Helganish, and he's a mega creep.) The actual explicit "content" in this chapter's flashback is many years after Primrose first came to Helganish, and a few years after she first meets Yusufa.

“What do you mean, he was petrified?” 

“Turneth to stone. He didst not breathe, nor speak, nor blink his eyes. ‘Tis the curse of a beast most foul.”

“And now you have to go hunt the beast?”

“Aye.”

Primrose thought about this as they walked. In a sense, she was hunting a beast, too-- three of them. But the huntress, striding ahead of her on the trail, majestic feline at her side-- she looked so much more capable. So much stronger.

“But I must visite a wise woman in Stillsnow,” H'aanit said, still staring straight ahead. “She knoweth how to defeat the Redeye.”

They walked in silence for a bit longer, each lost in their own thoughts. Primrose had noticed that the huntress was a woman who did not waste-- words, energy, or momentum. She walked quickly, did not pause to look back, and rarely spoke unless spoken to. Prim respected that. She had given in too many times to Cyrus’ incessant questions, told him more about her mission than she had wanted. And he had _known who she was_. He had recognized her father in her. He told her about a painting of the late Geoffrey Azelhart hanging in a wing of the Academy library-- evidently thanks for a monetary gift her father had donated before… before…

Primrose shook away the thoughts. She had been so angry at the scholar, as angry as he had been with her for what happened to that irritating thief he cared so much about. But that was behind her.

She almost walked into H'aanit. The huntress had stopped, listening. Linde mirrored her, ears perked, tail low to the ground. 

The dancer's eyes widened. “What is it?”

The huntress raised a finger to her lips, staring into the trees. Without a sound, she unslung her bow and notched an arrow. Primrose held her muscles as still as she could.

“Show thysef!” H'aanit yelled. The intensity of her voice made Primrose jump. 

A sort of high-pitched wailing came from the trees. “Don't shoot me! Please don't shoot me!”

A girl emerged from the woods, brambles tangled in her hair, a large tear in the lavender skirt of her dress. “Please,” she begged. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Primrose's heart faltered. She lifted a hand to H'aanit’s forearm. The huntress turned to her, jaw set, brows furrowed. 

“Sweetie, don't worry, no one's going to hurt you.” The dancer reached out to the girl.

“Do not,” H'aanit warned, refusing to lower her bow.

“She's obviously not a threat,” Primrose said sharply. She softened her tone. “What happened?”

The girl wiped her eyes. “I messed up,” she sobbed. “And I was supposed to get a carriage to Rippletide, but everything happened so fast, and there was the fire, and then, and then--” The tears came anew.

“Sweetie, come here.” Primrose reached out to embrace the girl, who buried her face against the dancer's shoulder. Prim stroked her hair. “It's okay, Yusufa,” she whispered.

“Thine destination is Rippletide, then?” H'aanit asked. She had let the bowstring slacken, but hadn't dropped it. Linde still watched the girl intensely.

“Yes. I-- I got lost,” the girl said. “The path is so hard to see out here. And then I heard you guys talking…” She pulled away from Primrose. “Can I come with you? Rippletide is on the way to Stillsnow.”

H'aanit looked annoyed. She glanced down at Linde, who licked her own nose passively.

“I have money,” the girl said. “I could pay--”

“There's no need,” Primrose said, and looked imploringly at the huntress.

“Fine,” H'aanit said, shouldering her bow. 

The girl smiled broadly, her face still gleaming with tears.

“What's your name, hun?” Primrose asked.

The girl wiped her face with the back of her hand again. “Therese.”

\--- --- ---

The group traveled onward, navigating steep switchbacks and rocky trails as they followed the path down from the mountains. Therese had begun the trek talking a million words a minute, but the complicated trail made her slow down and eventually become quiet with concentration. Primrose focused as well, balancing her weight and being careful with her steps. H'aanit practically glided down the trail, her footsteps always sure and confident, the leopard flowing at her side with grace. As the sun sank and the sky turned an orangey pink, the three women settled in a clearing to make camp. Linde scurried away, and by the time they had gathered enough wood and coaxed some sparks into a campfire-- Cyrus had a much less tedious method than striking flint with a blade-- the snow leopard had returned with a jackrabbit dripping in her jaws. She dropped it at H'aanit's feet, and bounded back into the woods.

“Eww.” Therese made a face as the huntress scooped up the rabbit.

“Where's she going?” Primrose followed the white blur of the leopard at it disappeared among the trees.

“She hunteth twice. Once for our supper, and once for her own.” H'aanit twisted the rabbit's ankles until the skin broke, then pulled the fur off cleanly in a swift, expert motion. “In return, I carrye the water and shelter for the rain.”

“That's quite the partnership.” Primrose stared in wonder as the huntress laid the rabbit on a rock, slicing the belly to remove the entrails.

“Eww,” Therese said again.

As the sky darkened and the rabbit sizzled on a skewer angled over the fire, the three women got to talking. Well, Therese and Primrose talked, while H'aanit listened. Primrose asked her about what had happened in town.

“There's this… man,” Therese said. “I was in love with him-- I _am_ in love with him. I came all this way to be with him, and… he…” she bit her lip to stifle her sob.

“Honey,” Primrose sympathized, rubbing the girl's shoulder. “He's not worth your tears. If he can't appreciate your feelings, then--”

“He _is_ worth it, though,” Therese sighed. “He's handsome, and brilliant, and the most amazing man I've ever met.”

H'aanit snorted loudly. She waved a hand and faked a few coughs to cover it. 

“What?” Therese turned to her, offended.

“All men are fools,” she said simply.

“Some are more foolish than others,” Prim reasoned.

Therese sighed. “We had one amazing afternoon together. And now he wants nothing to do with me.” 

“You're better off forgetting about that asshole,” Primrose said. “If you'll pardon my language.”

Therese smiled at the dancer, and shrugged. “He's the one who sent me on to Rippletide. He even gave me money for it.” She tugged a coin purse from a pocket in her satchel, plunking it down on the ground in front of her. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

“This is my friend's money.” Primrose snatched up the coin purse, dumping the contents out on the ground. “Because these are my earrings I asked him to hang on to, and I forgot to get them back!” She sprang to her feet. “If you robbed them…” 

As soon as she said this, she realized how stupid it was. No one could pickpocket Therion. He was the one pointing out the thieves in the Wellspring bazaar, so they could stay away. She had seen him lead on another pickpocket, only to swap his purse with a cloth bag of random pebbles, then follow him to laugh when he opened it. And this wisp of a girl couldn't have threatened them… she frowned. Unless Cyrus was alone. The man was too trusting, and oddly naïve. 

“I didn't rob anybody!” Therese shrieked. “Why would the Professor have your earrings?!” She gasped dramatically. “You… slept with him!”

“Listen, little girl--”

“Stoppen thine bickering!” H'aanit rose to her feet, stepping between the two. “Speaken calmly, or not at all.”

Primrose stared at the girl, then suddenly it all clicked into place. “You're the girl,” she said, shaking her finger at her. “You're the girl who got him fired.”

“How dare you?” Therese was on the edge of tears again.

“Listenen,” H'aanit scowled. “I knowen not what happened in thine pasts, but it matters not. What is done is done. Thou can only walkest the path of life one way.” She shot a pointed look at both of her companions. “So be still. Eaten.” 

She brought the skewer with the now cooked rabbit to her mouth, biting into the meat. Then she passed the skewer to Therese. The girl looked at it warily, then shook her head. “I have some dried fruit and bread.”

H'aanit offered it to Primrose, who had settled back down on the opposite side of the fire. The dancer took it, eyed it suspiciously, then sank her teeth into it. It was satisfying. She barely worried about the juices that ran down her chin. She passed it back to the huntress.

The group ate in silence for a while. The only sounds were the cracking of the fire and the ever present whine of the cicadas.

“I'm sorry,” Therese said eventually. “You've been really nice to me. I guess I'm just moody. I hope that's not a sign.”

Primrose studied her, recognizing genuine remorse. “Where are you going after Rippletide?” the dancer asked, trying to dismiss any ill will. 

Therese shrugged. “I'm supposed to finish my studies. The Professor said he wouldn't talk to me ever again if I didn't.” She rolled her eyes. “He'll probably insist on reviewing my term papers, too.”

Primrose smirked. That did sound like Cyrus. “That's probably for the best. Go back to your family and friends.”

“Do you have family in Stillsnow? Is that why you're going there?”

Primrose bit back the pang of emotion. “No.” She shook her head to clear it. “I have unfinished business there.”

“How ‘bout you?” Therese asked H'aanit. 

The huntress wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tossing a picked-clean bone into the fire. “I seeke a fortune teller, who can telleth me how to break a loathsome curse what has befallen my master.”

“Dang,” Therese said. “I wish I could go on neat quests.”

“Thou dost not.” H'aanit's cold eyes silenced any argument from the girl.

After Linde returned, licking her chops after another successful hunt, they all began to curl up for sleep. Therese pulled a fur-lined dark purple cloak around her, using her pack as a pillow. Primrose did much of the same. H'aanit and Linde lay together, keeping each other warm with proximity.

Primrose gazed into the flickering coals that remained from the campfire, considering Therese and her situation. It had been so long since she had been a girl, with her innocence intact. She barely remembered what it was like, to be foolish and timid and starry-eyed and nervous all at once. She only remembered the dread when she had been presented to Helganish. How he had appraised her and examined her. She had told him no man had touched her before. It was a lie, but he had valued her more because of it. He could sell her first time. In actuality, he sold her first time about three dozen times. By then, she had gotten good at putting her mind elsewhere-- focusing instead on how she could track down the men who had killed her father, stolen her life away. 

She had made sure to stay in her Master's good graces. It was safer being one of Helganish's favorites-- he charged more for his favorites, so the clients were more discerning and generally less smelly. And there was always one of his men outside the door, so she could scream if things got threatening-- though she needed to already have a mark on her, or else Helganish would side with the client.

Otherwise, she had kept to herself. There were other dancers, sure, and she watched them to learn their grace, their poise, their teases. She learned to dance with them when it was called for. She learned how to work with them when the clients requested it. She rarely spoke to them more than necessary. That all changed when she saw Yusufa.

Yusufa was broken. She had never been given a chance at happiness. She came in with her old Master with dead eyes, a fractured smile. Helganish had kept his favorite at his side as he interviewed the new girl, appraised her, leered at her, and Primrose focused all her energy on keeping her face cold and emotionless. For the first time in years, her heart had beat outside of necessity-- it went out to this poor, fragile thing balanced precariously on her old Master's lap. Primrose had seen herself-- how she had felt inside-- written on Yusufa's face and body. Helganish offered a pitiful sum to take the girl off her old Master's hands, and he had accepted, seeming almost glad to be rid of the burden.

She had gone to Yusufa that night. She had never bothered with any of the other girls, with their vapid self-importance, but to Yusufa she offered her friendship, her heart, her open embrace. Yusufa had accepted the only kindness she had likely ever known.

They had performed together, serviced clients together, before they had ever sought out intimacy from each other. They had shared a bed for two years, simply falling asleep in each other's arms, each seeking no more from the other than simple closeness. Slowly, Yusufa had begun to trust. She had begun to smile, but only in front of Primrose. Prim adored that-- a secret that was only hers to see.

She remembered the first time. They were lying in bed together, the early morning just before dawn after a long night, when they both tried to squeeze the memories out their minds and let the oblivion of sleep come. Primrose had her arm around Yusufa, her face buried in her hair, smelling the sweet rosewater perfume Master had gifted them. Yusufa had sighed and turned slightly, shifting her breast beneath Primrose's hand. Primrose noticed, and tried to slide her hand to the other dancer's shoulder, but Yusufa took Prim's hand and held it in place, over her heart.

“Primrose,” Yusufa said quietly, as to not wake the other dancers sleeping in the dormitory, “have you ever been in love?” 

Primrose's mind focused on little else but the softness of Yusufa's body pressed against hers.

“I thought I was, once,” Prim whispered. “But it was long ago. Another life.”

Yusufa nodded, threading her fingers between Primrose's, holding her hand against her chest. “What did it feel like?”

Primrose nuzzled her face further into Yusufa's hair, her lips a breath from the other dancer's ear. “I thought about him all the time. I would wait in agony until I could see him, and then when I did, I was so overwhelmed that I could barely speak. I felt warm, and jittery, and happy. Then when he left, I would only think about what a fool I was, and obsess over every little thing he said and did, wondering if he felt how I did.”

“Did he?”

Primrose sighed, her breath warm against Yusufa's cheek. “It was another life.”

Yusufa turned again, so she lay on her back, looking up at Primrose. “You're so beautiful. I can't believe that he wouldn't.” She raised a hand, brushing it along Primrose's cheek. 

Yusufa smiled her rare smile, and Primrose melted. She leaned down to kiss the other dancer, intending it to be only a quick show of affection, but Yusufa met her lips with hot passion. They had kissed before-- that, along with other things, had been requested by clients who paid for the both of them-- but never like this. Yusufa was alive. Currents of warmth surged through Primrose's body, and she felt an awakening within her. 

She had let herself be numb for so long. Her father's murder, the death of her old life, the disgraces of her new life-- they had made her cold. And as she had tried to comfort Yusufa in an attempt to comfort the scared little girl still inside them both, the warmth she awakened in the other dancer flowed back into her own frozen heart. She met Yusufa's passion, their lips dancing over each other's.

When they parted, Yusufa took a moment before she opened her eyes. When she did, they sparkled with a mesmerizing light. “Primrose,” she gasped, then smiled shyly.

Primrose ran her hand through Yusufa's hair. The other dancer took it in hers, moving it against her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, to her breast. Primrose followed the trail with her mouth. The skin beneath her lips burned with warmth. Primrose hooked a finger over the hem of the other dancer's top, tugging it down. Yusufa's little brown nipple tensed with the sudden brush of air, and Primrose took it into her mouth, teasing it with her lips. Yusufa gave a tiny gasp of surprise, running her hands through the other dancer's hair. Primrose's hand sought Yusufa's other breast, caressing and toying.

“Prim,” Yusufa whispered, and the other dancer pulled away. Primrose asked a silent question of Yusufa's shining eyes. Yusufa squeezed her lids closed. “Please… don't stop.”

Silently, as to not wake the other dancers sleeping nearby, Primrose comforted nearly every inch of Yusufa's body with her fingertips, her lips, and her tongue. She wanted to kiss away all the tiny invisible bruises of everyone who ever hurt her, and to make her feel safe, and loved, and beautiful. If she couldn't do it for herself, maybe she could do it for another. Yusufa clamped her hand over her own mouth, stifling the sighs of comfort at Primrose's touch. 

As Prim's lips danced along her stomach, Yusufa reflexively started sliding out of her remaining clothes. Primrose recognized the movement, quick and efficient, for clients who couldn't be kept waiting. She stopped, brushing her comforting hand against Yusufa's flushed cheek.

“We don't have to,” Primrose whispered. 

“I want--” Yusufa choked back emotion. “If it's you.”

Smiling, Primrose touched a sweet kiss against Yusufa's trembling lips, sliding a hand down the smooth skin of her hips, crossing to the inside of her thighs. Yusufa relaxed with the kiss, opening her legs to Primrose's touch. Slowly, Prim’s fingers sought the warmth of Yusufa's sex, already wet with desire. She slid inside almost before she realized it, intimately part of the other dancer. Her thumb brushed softly along the sensitive outside as her fingers pressed within. Her touch played with Yusufa's arousal while her lips concentrated on her neck and her chest. As she circled around that sweet little bud in the center of the flower, Yusufa's gasps became almost too loud for her hand to muffle. Yusufa pressed the back of her wrist into her mouth as her muscles rocked her body against Primrose's touch, urging the climax on. Prim ducked her head down to bring Yusufa over the edge with her tongue, fingers still teasing the pleasure out of her. When the peak came, Yusufa's muscles froze, and Primrose watched the relief wash over her features as all of the tension, and fear, and anxiety flowed out of the dancer's body. Yusufa sank into the mattress, looking at Primrose dreamily.

“Prim…” Yusufa whispered as she slid up to lie beside her. Yusufa weakly raised a hand to the other dancer's shoulder. “I never… never before…”

Primrose kissed Yusufa's forehead. “Sleep.”

And they had, wrapped again in each other's arms, blissfully unaware that the nights were numbered, that the night would come when Primrose would hold Yusufa for the last time. When that gaping hole had been slashed in her throat, and the red blood spilled over that smooth skin, and Yusufa looked up at her with cold, lifeless eyes. _And it was all your fault._

There was a strong hand on her back, and her eyes opened. Primrose looked up, clutching her cloak tightly around her, trying to remember where she was.

“Thou art alright?”

H'aanit knelt at her side, hand between her shoulder blades.

“Yes. Yes.” Primrose sat up, rubbing her forehead. Therese snored from across the campfire. “I'm fine.”

“Thou lookest pained.” 

The dancer studied the huntress’ eyes. They were a cool green, calm and steady. They had a depth to them that Primrose was afraid she would be lost in.

“Just some memories. I'm fine.”

H'aanit nodded. “The past can pain. And the future may frighten. So we must keepen strong in the present.” H'aanit’s eyes darted over the dancer's face. “A saying from my home.”

Primrose curled her knees to her chest, tightening the blanket of her cloak around herself “Are you frightened of the future? I can't imagine you being frightened of anything.”

H'aanit laughed: a short, single “ha!” She did not waste energy with laughter. “I knowen not if I can slay this beast.” H'aanit stared at the dying fire. “My Master had more skill and strength than I, and he…” she shook her head.

“I know what you mean.” Primrose hugged her knees. “I sometimes doubt my chances in my own battles.”

“There is strength in numbers.” H'aanit said. “One wolf is timid. A pack hath bravery.”

Primrose laughed. “I could use a good pack.”

H'aanit smiled at the dancer. Primrose was overcome by the cold beauty, and the sense that this, like Yusufa's, was another rare smile that she could cherish.


	20. Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion returns to Cordelia.
> 
> This one… ah… this one. I thought about several options for a while: Is Cyrus involved? How much? How sadistic is Cordelia at this point? There were a couple ideas, and I think I went with the second most intense one. And…well... bad news for the boys. Therion, it's not gonna get better until we finish your story, hun.
> 
> This one's got some stuff, but… uh… still not at Chapter 4, right? Let me know if I should dial it back for that one, or keep going down this messed-up road.

Cyrus and Therion woke up the next morning at dawn. They didn't leave the Stonegard inn until noon. They meandered westward, Therion pretending not to think about his destination, or the threat of the deadline. In Sunshade, they ended up in the same inn room as before, but only half as drunk. Despite this, Cyrus was only half successful in encouraging Therion to dance again. During a leisurely trip through the Riverlands, they paused to bathe in a wide stream, which led to them in each other's arms on the sunny bank, and a need for another bath. On a high plateau in the Cliftlands, they made love under the stars. But like all dreams, it had to come to an end. Bolderfall-- and Cordelia Ravus-- loomed on the horizon.

As they approached the town, Therion grew sullen. Cyrus had noticed, but he felt awkward calling attention to it. When they finally entered the city, Cyrus couldn't stand it any longer.

“Whatever business you have here that worries you,” the scholar began, “know that I am with you, and I will gladly do anything I can to help.”

Therion tried not to laugh, but anxiety got the best of him.

“Did I say something improper?” Cyrus asked, confused by the thief's laughter.

Therion shook his head to shake away the nervousness. “I need to go alone.”

“Therion--”

“No. It's…” Therion sought his eyes, to show him he was serious. “Look, it's my thing that I have to do. You're staying out of it. Swear that you won't go near that house.”

Cyrus’ eyes drifted up to the hillside mansion. “That ostentatious one up yonder?”

“Yeah,” Therion said. “That's where I have to go, and you need to stay away.”

“Therion.”

“Please.” 

Cyrus sighed. “Alright. I'll… I'll go amble around town, I suppose. Until you're finished.”

“Thank you,” Therion said. Cyrus took his hand, squeezed it reassuringly, then bowed out down the street. “Stay out of Lower Bolderfall,” Therion called after him. “It's bad news.”

Cyrus smiled and waved over his shoulder, and Therion smiled back. Then the situation hit him again, and he willed his feet to move.

Therion stood at the bottom of the path, in the shadow of the looming mansion. Just looking at it sent a chill through his veins. He forced his legs to move forward, his mind beginning to retreat from reality with every step. 

At the top of the hill, a guard moved to block his path, and the dogs barked and snarled at his side. Therion met his eyes and stared him down, unflinching. The man's mouth opened, ready to cuss him out, but another guard stopped him with a hand on his arm. The second guard was grinning maliciously-- Therion recognized him, and he certainly recognized the thief.

“Mistress has been expecting you,” the guard sneered.

Therion concentrated all of his apprehension and dread into an icy glare of anger. He said nothing, because he didn't trust his voice not to betray him. He shoved past the guards, heading towards the heavy front doors of the manor, ignoring the laughter from behind him. He pushed open the door, stepping into the vast, empty foyer.

The door banged shut behind him, echoing in the room and in his chest. The hall was dim, light leaking in only from a few high windows. He waited for some disembodied voice to give him some degrading instruction, but it never came. He stood in the entryway until his tense muscles tired, and relaxed out of simple exhaustion.

“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing.

There came no response.

Therion crept forward, leaning on the balustrade to peer up the carpeted staircase. There was no movement or sound from the upper floors. He crossed to a door, tugging the latch, finding it locked. This struck him as particularly strange, as when he had broken in the first time, none of the doors had been locked. He tried another to find it locked, as well. Two more on the opposite side, also locked. 

“You told me to be here, so I'm fucking here!” he yelled into the oppressive silence. His steps echoed as he crossed to the base of the staircase. “You want me to go, I'll be happy to get the hell out!”

A creaking echoed from the landing above, like a door opening slowly. Therion tensed, but there was no other sound. He crept up the stairs, shifting his weight to make as little noise as possible, ears straining to hear sounds that didn't exist. At the top of the stairs, a door stood open, light burning from the lanterns in the wall sconces. He couldn't recall being down this hallway before, and he didn't like the feeling it gave him. Still, he feared the promised consequences too much to turn back. He started down the hall, hair on the back of his neck rising.

He tried every door he passed in the door, finding each one locked. It was deliberate, and unsettling. He made it to the end of the hall, without a single door yielding. He fished his bent pin from his pocket, knowing he could make short work of any of these latches. He feared it was some ridiculous game. Choose correctly or face punishment, and there was no way to know. All the doors looked exactly the same. He turned the pin over in his fingers, searching for some kind of hidden clue. _Cyrus would know. He'd see something, and march to the right one with overwhelming confidence._ Therion tapped the pin against his lips, pensive. He could feel the eyes on him, watching.

\--- --- ---

Cyrus wandered around Bolderfall, trying not to make too many inferences about Therion's nervous behavior. There was _something_ distasteful happening, but something that humiliated Therion too much to have the scholar witness it. And his pride was too great for him to ask for help. He cared for Therion, but sometimes the thief could be so stubborn. _As can I,_ Cyrus smiled to himself.

He planned to heed Therion's advice about Lower Bolderfall, so he meandered about the mid level, peeking into the storefronts of shops and at the shaded booths of street vendors. He didn't have money to spend, but examining wares and trinkets always stimulated his curiosity until something more substantial piqued his interest.

He stumbled upon a storefront with a large hanging sign in the shape of an open book. “Ah, what's this now?” he said aloud, pushing through the door to the bookshop. 

“Welcome, welcome!” the spectacled older man behind the counter greeted him. He took note of Cyrus’ cloak. “A scholar, I see!”

“Indeed.” Cyrus smiled genially at him. “How does the business of bookselling fare here in Bolderfall?”

“Fine, fine,” the clerk said. “Looking for anything in particular, sir?”

“Just browsing,” Cyrus said. “Hoping to satiate my curiosity. Anything I… should be sure to take a look at?”

The bookseller grinned conspiratorially. “Are you interested, perhaps, in local ancient artifacts?”

“Go on.”

“I happened to come by a particularly rare historical account penned by a lesser member of House Ravus, nearly a century ago,” the bookseller’s eyes glittered. “I keep it locked in the back, but I can tell, sir, that you are a man of discerning taste.”

“I would be very interested in examining this account,” Cyrus said, voice hushed.

The bookseller smiled. “Just this way, sir.” 

He stepped out from behind his counter, motioning Cyrus towards a door in the back. He opened it and stepped into the cluttered back room, propping the door open for Cyrus. As the scholar followed the bookseller eagerly, he failed to notice the two men who had walked into the shop after him, and followed through the back door. Cyrus watched the bookseller rummage through a few stacks of old books before he realized that the two large, armored men had entered the back room as well.

“Why, hello, gentlemen. I--” Cyrus began, but was cut off when one of the men grabbed him, slamming him against the wall. He opened his mouth, the defensive spell on the tip of his tongue, as a cloth gag was forced between his teeth. Cyrus struggled, but the second man was holding him now, too, while the first tied the gag around his head. Cyrus’ eyes, panicked, searched for help from the bookseller, but he simply removed his glasses, stowing them in his shirt pocket.

“Try not to struggle,” the bookseller said, his voice taking on a new, confident air. “These two tend to respond poorly to that. You may end up with some unfortunate bruising. The Mistress may not want that. Yet.”

The two men forced Cyrus’ hands behind his back. One bound his wrists tightly with a length of rope, while the other forced a dark cloth over his eyes, darkening his vision.

“Think we got ‘im, Mister Heathcote,” one of the thugs said.

“Very well,” the butler disguised as the bookseller said. “Best not to keep Mistress Cordelia waiting. We'll take the alleyway to the tunnels.”

The larger of the two guards hefted the struggling Cyrus over his shoulder, and the group exited through the back of the store. Heathcote pressed a few leaves into the palm of the actual bookseller, who watched the Ravus muscle leave his shop with their intended captive. 

\--- --- ---

Therion walked the length of the hall again, trying each door, looking for a hint. To his surprise, one opened at his touch. He stared at it as it swung open. It had been locked before, he was certain of it. He had tried them all. He peered into the shadows behind the door, not able to discern anything in the darkness. He snatched one of the small lanterns burning in the sconce, and pushed carefully into the room. 

Lights moved on the walls as he entered, and he was instantly on guard. When he stopped, so did the lights. He stared hard, then shook the lantern. The lights around him wiggled in turn. Therion stepped closer to one of them, as it closed in on him. When he saw his reflection illuminated in it, he was reassured. The walls were covered in mirrors. This was vaguely reassuring. He could see the sliver of light from the open door he had come though now that his eyes had adjusted. As he watched, it shrunk slowly, until it vanished completely. The latch clicked with a resounding clunk.

“Fuck,” Therion muttered.

Female laughter flooded the room. Therion tensed. Two more lights entered the room from the far end, spreading and moving in the mirrors, multiplying. Two guards were lighting torches. And between them, standing in the doorway in thin-heeled boots, was Cordelia Ravus. 

“Oh, pet,” Cordelia laughed. She wore a black dress cut low on the top, slit high in the skirt, all pale white thighs and cleavage. “That widdle look of concentration on your face when you were trying to figure it out. And you got so mad! So cute.”

“Look, just let me explain what happened,” Therion said, backing against the mirrored wall. She seemed to surround him, the reflectuons mirrored infinitely around him. He saw his own body cowering in nervousness.

“Explain?” Cordelia laughed, heels clicking as she strode into the room. “Explain how you failed to recover my Dragonstone? Explain how you lost sight of the agreement we had? Or explain how you forgot the consequences of not following through with your mission?” The guards had encircled the room, lighting torches, and it was bright now, the light amplified by the mirrors’ reflections. “I sort of understand if you got confused. I didn't choose you for your brains, you know.”

Therion swallowed the insult. “I know who has it. I can get it back. I know the guy.”

Cordelia laughed. “We know who he is too. We even know where he is. And the fact that he already has the last one.”

“The… the last one?” Therion stared at her, aware of the approach of her guards on either side of him. “Darius has two?”

Cordelia held up two fingers, her hand masked in a long black evening glove. “Two. And you have none.” She held up her other hand, fingers curled into a round zero. She shook her head disappointedly. “Take off your clothes.”

“Just… just tell me where he is, I'll go get them, we'll be done with this.” Therion's eyes darted from Cordelia, to the infinite reflections of her in the walls, to the twice as infinite images of her armed guards. He watched as her reflection unstrung something hanging on her skirt-- a flail, sort of, with a handle and long straps of dark leather hanging off of it.

“Take them off!” she screamed, punctuating her sentence with a loud crack of the whip against the floor at her feet.

Therion's eyes widened, his actions motivated by ancient muscle memory of a woman's voice screaming at him. He tugged off his scarf and tunic in one quick motion, and he fumbled with his belt, hands shaking. A guard leaned over to snatch the dagger from his waist.

“Faster!” Cordelia yelled.

“I'm trying!” 

Cordelia cracked her whip, and the guards grabbed him. One held him under the arms while the other wrenched off his boots and trousers. They yanked off his undershirt and half carried, half dragged him to the center of the room.

The room was strangely barren for its size, as if it had been some kind of dance hall or reception parlor at some time in its history. The ceiling had wide exposed beams, and it was only once the guards forced Therion's arms over his head that he noticed the chains hanging from them, wrist shackles gaping open on the ends of each.

“Wait, wait!” Therion knew struggling was fairly useless. A guard clinked the metal ring closed around each of his wrists, leaving him hanging, balancing on his bare tiptoes. He saw himself reflected a thousandfold in the mirrors, naked, struggling, helpless. His whole body burned in embarrassment.

“You are too cute, pet.” Cordelia laughed, striding over to him. She poked the handle of her whip under his chin, forcing him to look at her. He bit his lip to keep from screaming at her-- he was sure that would make his situation worse. She ran a gloved finger along the scar under his jaw, the one from Gareth's knife. “This one's new, yes?” Her eyes traveled down his body. “Don't worry. I still think you're adorable.” Her fingers slid down his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart before brushing down his stomach, closing around his cock and balls. She gave a little squeeze, smirking at his reaction, toying with the ring marking her property.

“I do hope this has been the proper size,” she said, sliding her finger over the metal. “Clearly not too loose, or it would have slipped right off. But tight enough that when you're excited…” She began stroking his cock, trying to elicit the arousal. “It should make it unignorable, and drive you crazy until you cum. And that would make you think of me.” Cordelia smiled. “Has that been your experience, pet?”

It had been, but he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction. He fought the urge to yell obscenities in the face of a sadistic woman who had his balls in her hand. She laughed, and nodded to one of her guards.

“Jonathan, I believe I left my drink in the other room. Be a dear?”

The guard scrambled off dutifully, returning with a glass with a tiny bit of an amber colored liquid and stacked with large chips of ice. Cordelia traded him her whip for the glass. She sipped the last of the drink, letting one of the ice chunks slide between her lips, not swallowing. Then she slunk close to Therion, grabbing his chin in her hand, and pulled him into a kiss. She pried his lips apart with her own, and he could taste the brandy and the chill of the ice as she forced it into his mouth. She held the kiss until he swallowed, the ice freezing his throat. Then she pulled away.

“Isn't ice luxurious?” she crooned, swirling the remaining chips in her glass. “I have these huge blocks brought in every season from the Frostlands, and I keep it deep down in the cellar, but it still melts, in time.” 

She fished a piece of ice from her glass, holding it between her gloved fingers. After studying it a bit, she held it against Therion's left nipple. He gasped and shivered from the sudden coldness, and she laughed as she slowly circled it around the hardening skin. As it melted, trails of cold water dripped down his bare stomach. She swirled it against him until it melted completely, then plucked out another chunk for his right side. Therion shivered and bit his lip as Cordelia laughed.

“So precious,” she purred, transferring her glass to her other hand, then reaching down to tease his cock. The chill on his sensitive nipples made his body much more responsive. Cordelia smiled in satisfaction as she felt him harden beneath her touch.

“It almost makes me want to forgive you.” She stepped away suddenly, trading the guard again, her glass for her whip. “Almost.”

“Wait. Please.” Therion watched her reflection in the mirrors as she stepped around him. She ignored his words.

“I thought about maybe making you beg for forgiveness,” Cordelia continued. “Maybe give you a couple options, a couple toys, to try to make your apology. See how far you would go.” She ran the end of the whip handle down his back, and he jerked as far forward as the chains would let him-- which wasn't far. “Maybe I'd take you outside for walkies, pet. This town hasn't seen good public humiliation in a long time.” The handle found its way along his rear, pressing between the back of his thighs. Cordelia angled it to spread his legs apart. 

“But then…oh no.” She pulled the handle away entirely. “Heathcote told me about that man you're with. The one with the dark hair and the pretty face. And pet, that made me so… jealous.”

Cordelia swung the whip against Therion's lower back. He screamed at the impact. The leather straps were flat, so they weren't made to break the skin, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt, especially when Therion hadn't been expecting it.

“And he told me he saw you with him!” Cordelia yelled, two more strokes against Therion's bare back. He was trying to hold in his cries, to not give her that, at least. “And you were kissing him!” Three more searing swipes of leather on skin. “And you let! Him! Fuck! You!” She accented each of these words with a lash on Therion's ass. He was panting, his skin burning. He could see himself in the mirrors, reddened, gasping.

Cordelia strode back around him, tapping the whip against her palm. “How could you?” she said, disgust on her face. “You are mine. That means _I_ get you. And I guess maybe Heathcote and these guys if I let them, but that's because _they_ are mine, too!”

She stepped back and let the whip fly again, this time over his chest and stomach. Therion recoiled with every blow, but they just kept coming.

“I'm sorry!” he yelled, and Cordelia paused. He looked up at her, trying to catch his breath. “That's what you want to hear, right?” _Fucking crazy ass bitch…_

Cordelia brightened, and the whip fell to the floor. “That _is_ what I wanted to hear!” She bounced towards him, embracing him, pressing her body into his burning nerves, making him wince. “See, puppy, I knew you cared!”

She stepped back, but ran her hands over the abused skin on his chest. “So that's why I didn't really want to punish you, even though I know I needed to, because responsible pet ownership is all about consistency with discipline. No, what I really wanted to do was punish _him_.”

Therion's eyes widened, and his spine straightened. “What?”

Cordelia smiled. She leaned in to whisper. “This town belongs to me, pet. And so does everyone in it.” She turned her face away.

“Jonathan, see if Heathcote's ready to bring him in.” The guard trotted off again. Therion watched, filled with dread. 

The far doors opened, and Heathcote walked into the room, bowing gracefully to his Mistress. Behind him, a guard angled a struggling figure into the room. Therion barely recognized Cyrus. To begin with, he was naked. Blindfolded. Gagged. His hands bound behind his back, he stumbled forward, held up only by the guard's hand around his upper arm.

“Cyrus!” Therion yelled. Cordelia struck him with the whip, and he recoiled as far as his chains allowed. 

“Oh, puppy,” she crooned. “So cute, but so dumb. He can't hear you. We plugged his ears. And he can't see you, or… anything, really… and he definitely can't cast any annoying spells. Much harder to disarm a mage than a thief.” 

The guard pushed Cyrus further out into the room, the scholar stumbling as he couldn't see where to plant his bare feet. He looked like a newborn deer-- all of the confident swagger and charisma the thief loved was gone. Therion shook his head in disbelief, mouth open.

“Let him go,” Therion said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Please. Do whatever you want to me. I don't care. Just… he didn't do anything. Let him go.”

Cordelia laughed, loudly. It hurt Therion as much as her whip had. “No, pet, it doesn't work like that.” She ran a hand along his cheek, cupping his chin. “See, he messed with my property. So I'm going to mess with him.” 

The guard shoved Cyrus forward and he crashed against the floor. Without use of his hands to catch him, he hit on his face and shoulder, groaning against the gag in his mouth. The guard chuckled to himself, and Therion's heart leapt into his throat.

“So, I'm gonna leave it up to you, puppy,” Cordelia said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “That guy's gonna get fucked, and I'm gonna watch. Either you can do it, or I'll find someone else to do it.” She twirled her finger around the room, at the assembled guards and her butler. “Whoever wants to, whatever, I don't care about that part.”

“You're sick,” Therion muttered. “You're fucking crazy, and you need some Godsdamned help.”

Cordelia glared at him, fire in her eyes, before she slapped him across the face. She took a few steps back to give herself room for the torrent of strikes her reclaimed whip rained down on Therion's chest and stomach. He screamed and twisted away with little success.

“I'll do it, I'll do it!” Therion yelled. He gasped for air as Cordelia beamed at him.

“I thought you'd come around. Let him down.”

The guard reached above him to unlock his wrists. As the second was released, he crumpled to the floor, catching himself on his hands and knees. He stood shakily, to see Cyrus attempting to do the same, blind and without the use of his hands. Cordelia walked past the scholar, shoving him over. He crashed to the floor again, and Therion hurried over towards him. 

Heathcote had carried in an ornate cushioned chair for his Mistress, and she sat in it, legs crossed, watching Therion expectantly. The thief knelt by the scholar, grabbing his shoulder wanting to reassure him. Cyrus instantly recoiled, shuffling away on his knees. Therion's heart broke, and he reached for the blindfold.

“No, no, no,” Cordelia said. “Can't touch any of that stuff, or my boys take over.” Heathcote swept in next to her with another drink on ice. “Thank you, darling. This may take him a while, but I think it will be worth it.”

Therion turned back to Cyrus. Slowly, he set his hand on the scholar's shoulder. Cyrus pulled away again, but not as far. He ran his hand down Cyrus’ arm, hoping he would know him by touch, but the way the scholar's jaw was clenched around the gag, he didn't count on it. Cyrus didn't know where he was, who he was with, what the stakes were… Therion felt the heat well up behind his eyes. 

“Tick tock,” Cordelia mused. “If I get to the bottom of this glass and your cock still isn't in his ass, we're going to have a problem, pet.” There were muted chuckles from her guards. 

Therion looked at Cyrus hopelessly. There were fresh bruises on his bare body where the guards had subdued him. That treatment, along with the lack of usable senses and limbs, had probably kept Cyrus from trying harder to fight him off. He had to make the scholar understand that he wasn't one of them. He leaned in, wrapping his arms around Cyrus, feeling him go rigid beneath his touch. 

Therion embraced him, planting a kiss on his neck. Cyrus’ nose brushed through his hair, and the scholar turned his head into it, breathing in. He could smell his scent in his hair. Cyrus’ tense muscles relaxed slightly, and he voiced something that sounded like a question, muffled by the gag. Therion imagined that he heard his name. He nodded against Cyrus’ shoulder, reaching back to hold his bound hand, squeezing two of his fingers in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Cyrus still recoiled.

Therion leaned back, tracing a letter T with his finger in Cyrus’ chest, over his pounding heart. He spelled out his name, one letter at a time, punctuating it with a kiss. Cyrus nodded, and leaned forward. Therion embraced him, relief washing over him.

Cordelia clinked the ice in her glass impatiently. Therion glared at her over his shoulder.

“Best be bringing him over here to get started, pet,” she warned. She laughed as she settled back in her chair.

Therion swallowed hard, and held Cyrus’ shoulders to guide him to his feet. The scholar leaned on him as Therion moved him towards Cordelia's chair, hating himself with every step. He avoided watching his reflection in the mirrors, turning over options in his mind, knowing that there was nothing he could do but submit to the Mistress’ bidding. Even if he could get Cyrus’ gag and blindfold off before the guards reacted-- doubtful, since the mirrors let them watch him from every possible angle-- the scholar was so disoriented that he likely wouldn't be able to get a spell off before those thugs rammed a spear through one of them. Cordelia had already made it clear she found Cyrus disposable.

Cordelia watched with an amused smile as Therion stopped Cyrus in front of her. He tried to nudge him to his knees, but the scholar wouldn't bend. Therion hugged his shoulders, bringing both of them down together, Cyrus leaning against him without his hands to support himself.

“Better get your head right, pet,” Cordelia teased, motioning to his cock. She had coaxed it to attention earlier, and the ring had kept him from going completely soft despite the guilt pulsing through him. “Otherwise I can have my guys help you out with that.” She giggled, and the guard at her side rubbed a hand over his own crotch, leering.

Therion tried to put it out of his mind. He twisted behind Cyrus, making sure to keep his hands in contact, to reassure him that it was still him. He kissed down Cyrus’ back, trying to reassure him with his touch, though he could feel the scholar shaking beneath his hands. He spread the scholar's ass apart slowly, and Cyrus leaned forward to let him, balancing his forehead against the floor. Therion ignored Cordelia's titters as he moved his mouth to Cyrus’ opening, hoping maybe pleasure could relax him. He would do whatever he could to lessen the hurt.

He was aware of the eyes on him, thousands of eyes reflected in the mirrors, able to watch him from every angle. He tugged at himself, trying to encourage the arousal he needed to keep Cordelia from having her men take over. He shut the rest of the room out of his mind, focusing only in Cyrus. He ran his free hand over the lower half of the scholar's body, recalling the carefree love they had made on the journey from Stonegard, aching desperately for that sense of freedom and abandon now. He remembered the low city lights through gauzy curtains in the inn in Wellspring, Cyrus’ eyes shining like stars as their lips met. The sheen of his wet skin on the bank of the river, and how their bodies had moved together slowly beneath the surface of the water. The chill of the night air as he had ridden Cyrus on a moonless night, overcome by the sensation where their bodies had met. He felt himself stir in response to the memories, felt Cyrus’ body react to his attentions. He slid a finger inside, testing the resistance, and Cordelia met his eyes as he looked up over the curve of Cyrus’ rear.

She had uncrossed her legs, spread them apart, and from the lazy motions of her now gloveless hand between her thighs, it was clear she wore nothing underneath the skirt. She shook her drink glass in her other hand. “One sip left, pet,” she teased, a cruel smile on her lips. “Better get to it.”

No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, he could not get that image of her staring at him, touching herself, out of his mind. He forced himself to move, angling himself at Cyrus’ wet opening, pressing inside before he lost the ability. Cyrus groaned against the gag in his mouth, nearly drowned out by the moan that came from Cordelia's throat. Therion collapsed against Cyrus' back, wanting just to stop time and hold him, to apologize, to beg forgiveness. He kissed Cyrus’ bound hands, and the scholar's fingers moved to touch his face as best they could.

“I didn't say stop, pet!” Cordelia chastised. Therion glared up at her, murderous, until the whip cracked against his already tender ass. He screamed, and saw Heathcote wielding the whip reflected in the mirrors. He felt Cyrus’ body shudder at the impact as well. His eyes burned beneath his eyelids as he rocked forward into Cyrus.

“Make sure he stays encouraged, Heathcote,” Cordelia said. Therion could hear her smirk in her voice. He didn't dare look up to see her watching as she worked herself. He could hear her moans and sighs. He tried to push it all out of his mind, but anytime he slowed the motion of his hips, he felt the lash sting against his burning skin. His body was responding to the feeling of moving within Cyrus, but his mind raged and roared. He kept thrusting to stave off the cracks of pain from behind him, trying not to listen to the muffled sounds leaking from behind Cyrus’ gag.

The scholar's body had been falling forward without his hands to steady him. Therion only realized this and opened his eyes when the pair of their connected bodies were pushed backwards as a guard lifted Cyrus by his shoulders, pressing him backwards into Therion. Another guard was sliding Cordelia's chair forward until she cradled the scholar's face in her hands over her lap. Therion felt Cyrus’ muscles tense around him. He didn't dare stop, as he saw Heathcote in the mirror, still circling behind him, looking for an excuse to hurt him.

Cordelia worked her fingers into the strap at the back of Cyrus’ neck, loosening the gag. She pulled it, dripping with saliva, from the scholar's mouth. As Cyrus began to vocalize something, she pressed his face down between her thighs, muffling his nose and mouth with her sex. She laughed as he struggled for air. Therion cried out in protest, reaching for his shoulders, only to be shoved away by a guard and receiving strike after merciless strike from Heathcote. Therion reflexively curled into a ball on the floor, staring up between his fingers at Cordelia and Cyrus.

She pulled the scholar's face up by his hair, and he gasped for breath. She pinched his jaw between her thumb and middle finger, prying his mouth open with her forefinger. She teased his tongue until he extended it. She smiled. “This one's not nearly as stupid,” she said, settling Cyrus’ face back between her thighs, rolling her hips to work her sex over his tongue.

Heathcote had stopped hitting Therion to grab him by the arms, jerking him upright. “You weren't finished,” he growled, and shoved him back towards Cyrus’ ass. Trembling, Therion tried to push himself back within the scholar's body, terrified of what might happen if he didn't. He couldn't quite do it, and settled for rubbing his hips against Cyrus’ rear, hoping that Heathcote couldn't see too closely. All the while, Cordelia's exaggerated moans of pleasure grated on him, each shriek and gasp of hers like another blow from her whip.

He could tell when she was climaxing. Everyone in the Cliftlands must have been able to hear it. She sank into her chair, breathing heavily, petting Cyrus’ head, which she kept pinned between her legs.

“Oh, Gods, I love getting what I want,” Cordelia sighed, curling a lock of Cyrus’ hair around her finger. “How about you, pet?” Therion stared up at her, horrified. She laughed. “Bring him over, Jonathan.”

Therion let his body go limp as the guard dragged him over to Cordelia. She pushed Cyrus’ face away as the guard dropped him with his back to the chair. Cyrus hit the ground in front of Therion, but before he could reach out, Cordelia hooked her legs over his shoulders, pinning his arms to the chair legs. The guard was quick to muffle Cyrus’ mouth again with the gag. 

“You made a good effort, puppy,” Cordelia crooned, tracing over his jaw and eyebrows with her fingers. “But you know how happy it makes me when you cum for me.” She pouted down at him. “I'd hate for you to leave here all disappointed.”

“Why,” Therion sighed, exhausted and in pain, both mentally and physically. “Why do you do this shit?”

Cordelia laughed, and pinched his cheek. “Because you're so cute, I can't help myself.” She waved at the guard holding Cyrus. He maneuvered the helpless scholar while Cordelia bent forward to grab Therion's cock, coaxing back the rapidly vanishing arousal. The guard pulled the gag to the side of Cyrus’ mouth, so his jaw was still held open, and forced it over Therion's length. The thief shivered at the sudden sensation. Cordelia's hands roamed over the heated skin on his chest. 

Cyrus’ mouth was around his cock, but he didn't move a muscle-- not a twitch from the scholar's lips or tongue. Therion realized, with a deep pang of guilt, that Cyrus had lost track of him when they had lost contact. He didn't know who he was, whose cock was in his mouth, and he was waging his silent protest.

“He's going to need some motivation, Heathcote,” Cordelia said.

“No, wait--” Therion shouted, but the butler didn't hesitate to crack the whip across Cyrus’ rear. This did motivate the scholar, but the motions were different than usual. When they were together on their own, Cyrus played with him, explored him, worked him up to crescendos and back down to a pulsing, even desire. That was not this Cyrus. This was frantic, hard, as much and as fast as he could to get through it. Still, with that, and Cordelia's fingers toying with his sensitive nipples, and the sheer frustration of the up and down she had put him through already, with the throbbing of his skin and the pounding of his brain, he let the pleasure build. 

Cordelia circled his lips with her finger, pressing into his mouth. Therion shut his eyes. He couldn't look down at Cyrus, knowing he thought he was being forced on a stranger. He couldn't look up to see Cordelia or Heathcote smirking down at him. And anywhere he looked in the room, his ordeal would be reflected back at him from every angle. He abandoned himself. He checked out, and just let his body do whatever it would. Cordelia's hands roamed his body, his arms pinned back behind her legs, and he felt himself climax into Cyrus’ mouth. The scholar tensed up when he tasted it, pulling away and spitting the bit in his mouth onto what he had assumed was the floor, but was really Therion's inner thigh. Cordelia reached down to milk the last drops from the thief, and he shuddered at the sensation. 

“There you are, pet,” she whispered, her breath scented with brandy. She swirled her finger around the wetness that had spilled out of him. “I expect more effort from you in recovering the remaining stones in Northreach. Otherwise…” She dragged her finger, coated with his own cum, between his lips and across his tongue. “The next time we meet will be really tough on you. And I wouldn't expect your pretty friend here to enjoy it much, either.” She laughed, and shoved him away.

“Take them out, I'm done with them,” Cordelia said, waving her hand at the two bare bodies crumpled on the floor. Cyrus struggled as two guards lifted him and dragged him from the hall, but Therion didn't fight it. He was expecting this exit by now. 

The guards tossed Therion out in the alley, Heathcote tossing a bundle of clothes out after him. The other two ripped the blindfold off of the scholar's face before hurling him into the sunlight. They hadn't untied his hands, so he tumbled in the dirt, unable to catch himself.

“Cyrus!” Therion scrambled to find his dagger in his scattered pile of clothes, then hurried over to the scholar to saw apart the rope. His struggle against it had left deep red marks in his wrists. As the rope broke, Cyrus threw one hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the sudden assault of sunlight, blinding him after being in the dark so long. The other went to his ear, picking out a thick plug of wax.

Therion reached for his shoulders. “Cyrus, I'm so sorry--”

“Do not touch me,” Cyrus shouted, shoving the thief away. Therion fell backwards. Cyrus had never raised his voice to him before, never been rough. The scholar wrenched the plug from his other ear, struggling to his feet, bracing himself against the low wall of the alleyway. He turned away from Therion and vomited, hard.

“It was me,” he said, his voice cracking. “She said it was me, or it was going to be the guards, and I figured it was better if it was me. Cyrus, I--”

“Cease your prattling,” Cyrus said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Therion shut his mouth immediately, tears finally spilling over his cheeks.

Cyrus looked up at him, the anger in his face softening. “I apologize. Just give me a minute. Please.”

Therion searched around, noticing a pile of Cyrus’ clothes near the wall, unsure when those had appeared. He grabbed it for Cyrus, ignoring his own nakedness, the shaking of his limbs, the throbbing of his skin, his mind in freefall. He watched the scholar's face. He had shut his eyes, his features contorted with emotion, two fingers massaging the center of his forehead.

“It was you the entire time?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. Except for the part where she--”

“Obviously.”

“When I told you to stay away, I didn't think they'd go find you. I… I didn't think...” Therion lost his words. “Fucking crazy ass bitch.”

Cyrus held up a hand to silence Therion. He still hadn't opened his eyes. “Allow me to…” 

Cyrus took a deep, controlled breath. As Therion watched, the anger and pain in his face began to soften. After a second slow breath, his face was neutral. And after a third, Cyrus opened his eyes, and he looked as fresh as he had that morning-- softness about his mouth, a hint of upturned positivity to his brow. 

“There,” he said, his voice calm and cool. “My clothes. Good.” He reached for them and began dressing.

Therion stared, mystified by the complete reversal. His confusion temporarily cleared his own mind. “How’d you do that?”

“I am quite practiced at regulating my thoughts.”

“No,” Therion shook his head, a little unnerved. “You were very not okay. _I_ am very not okay. And now you're just fine. How did you do that?”

“By keeping my mind organized,” Cyrus said. “Put your clothes on, we are leaving as quickly as possible.”

Therion wiped his face with his scarf, and rummaged for his trousers. “What do you mean, ‘organized’? And how do I do it, ‘cause that is some shit I want to forget about.”

Cyrus sighed, speaking as he dressed. “It's a technique I developed when I was very young. It let me study different topics for hours on end without suffering mental exhaustion or letting myself become distracted. A side effect is that I don't have to think about things that I don't wish to.”

“Keep explaining.” Therion pulled his undershirt over his still-tender chest. Cyrus’ words served as a welcome distraction from the storm of his emotions.

“So I visualize this… set of drawers. When I was young, it was the dresser in my bedroom, but now it sort of looks like a library card catalogue.” He noticed the look on Therion's face as he buttoned his vest. “Big box with lots of tiny notecard sized drawers. Except now it's grown to something like aisles and aisles of catalogues… I digress. Any information I take in, I visualize sorting into one of these drawers. Then I can open it later when I want to think about it, or study it further, and if I don't have time, the bit of information just gets stored until I can, so I can go on processing what I need to at the time.”

“That is some nerd shit.” Therion pulled on his tunic.

“Most definitely. But the benefit is such that I’m so practiced at this system of organizing my thoughts, I can store away things for later and simply… never think about it again.”

“Seriously.”

“There is a drawer that is locked tight. And all of… that…” he motioned at Ravus Manor, “is now trapped in there, never to see the light of day.”

“So you got some imaginary box in your head holding on to every bad thing that has ever happened to you in your whole life.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes at the thief as he fastened his cloak. “You're right. That's completely unhealthy. I should probably just try drowning myself in alcohol until I push everyone away and lose touch with reality.”

Therion frowned. “Probably uncalled for, but I see your point.”

Cyrus softened. “I apologize.” He held out his arms, embracing Therion. The thief sank into his chest, clutching handfuls of his shirt. Cyrus kissed his forehead. “I did not intend to be harsh with you. Emotion makes one weak.”

“They're still watching, though,” Therion whispered.

“Then we should depart.”

Therion nodded, and stepped away. Cyrus walked hurriedly down the alleyway to the main street, pulling him along. Therion looked back up at the manor, threw up his middle finger at it, and ducked close to Cyrus.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You remember how you were teaching Primrose that one spell?”

“Yes?”

“They seemed pretty freaked out by the thought of magic. And if I have to go back another time…”

Cyrus nodded, suppressing a smirk. “I think you would be well suited for fire spells.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”


	21. The Tale of a Scholar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter totally got away from me, I applogize for the length. But I am definitely writing some kind of spinoff story about weird nerd kid Cyrus and awkward adorable college Cyrus and crazy wildcard Odette. It's coming, I have a rough outline, and oh my gosh there was so much more I wanted in this flashback than I put in. So yeah. Hot dang. It's gonna happen.
> 
> Uhh... summary: Therion and Cyrus visit Odette, Cyrus narrates a flashback about his childhood and the defining moment when he first met Odette.

They headed out of Bolderfall quickly. Cyrus had managed to fill the time with inconsequential conversation that kept Therion's mind away from what had transpired that morning. The scholar might have freaky command over his memories, but Therion didn't. He figured out that Cyrus had been distracting him purposefully when he connected the fact that every time he snuck a shot from his “hidden” flask, Cyrus brought up another “Therion, did you know that…?” Once he realized it, he loved him for it.

They stopped at a crossroads, both sensing that they were far enough out of town to escape Cordelia's clutches. Therion discovered he was winded, as if they had been running. He sat on the ground to rest. Cyrus leaned against a nearby rock, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“Cordelia has two of four stones, including a red ruby,” Cyrus said, and Therion flinched at her name.

“Yeah.”

“And this other fellow has the other two, one being the emerald we failed to recover from the Black Market.”

“I had it, I just lost it,” Therion said, staring at the ground. He muttered to himself. “Could have avoided all that if I had just hung on to it. Could have kept it from being that bad. Could have kept it to just me.”

“That… sort of thing has happened during every encounter?”

“Yeah.” Therion ran his hands over his face.

“And you returned under your own volition.” 

Therion turned to him.

“That is remarkably courageous. You are very brave.”

Therion laughed. “No, just stupid and unlucky. But I didn't think…” He shook his head. “That time was the worst.”

“I wonder if it's the elemental imbalance,” Cyrus pondered.

“I'd ask, but you're going to tell me anyway.”

Cyrus grinned, standing, gesturing with his hands as he explained. “So artificers-- the people who study magical artifacts and dabble with imbuing everyday items with magical powers-- have long had difficulty harnessing immense magical power within just a single object. They often create a linked set of objects, and then the power is only accessible when the entire set is physically in one place. I surmise this is the case with these Dragonstones. Additionally, from what I've observed and read, it seems the gems are elementally attuned. I assume the original artificers, eons ago, when these things were created, used elemental magic to pry apart the source of the power and crystallize it within the gemstones. Probably the easiest way to keep it stable.”

“Great, but--”

“Ravus has the ruby, and one other stone. One that-- and this is an assumption, so correct me of I'm wrong-- you attempted to purloin from her at the start of this endeavor.”

Therion narrowed his eyes at Cyrus. “I was trying to get all four. I didn't know they only had one left.”

“I assume it is blue in color? A sapphire, most likely?”

“Yeah.” Therion thought for a moment. “So like, the red one is fire? And the blue one is ice?”

Cyrus brightened, clearly pleased at Therion's drawn conclusion. “Diametrically opposed elements. Highly reactive to each other, and we've already experienced the influence of just a single stone. And if they're shut in that house with those two powerful stones…”

“You're saying they're not normally like that. That it's the stones. And the combination made it worse.”

Cyrus shrugged. “It seems plausible.”

Therion sighed. “And Darius has the other two. The emerald one and the golden one.”

“Wind and lightning. Also opposing elements.”

“Are they? ‘Cause those seem pretty similar.”

“I'm sorry, which one of us has had a formal education in arcane studies again?” Cyrus teased. “The interaction is nuanced, and I don't believe you're interested, so I won't bore you with the details.”

“You know me so well. So, when we try to get the other two back… Darius is gonna be as crazy as them.”

“That… would be a logical conclusion.”

“Awesome.” Therion flopped over, laying on the ground, staring up at the blue sky above. “And then when-- if-- we get them both back, then we start going crazy.”

Cyrus shook his head. “We won't.”

Therion looked to the upside-down scholar. “How can you be--”

“We're going to detour to Quarrycrest, first. Odette will have some mythril.”

Therion's confused expression deepened.

“Mythril can neutralize elemental resonances. We get a container, melt some mythril, coat the container, and we're good to go.”

“That easy?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

“Mythril is fairly rare. Expensive. Odette is not going to want to part with it cheaply.”

“Right. You got a plan to convince her?”

“It is impossible to have a plan with Odette,” Cyrus shook his head. “She barely responds to logic. We'll just have to go there and find out.”

\--- --- ---

When they reached Quarrycrest, Therion kept a curious eye open for that merchant girl who had startled him so much the last time he had been here, but he didn't see her. He was glad she had moved on. Cyrus guided them expertly to Odette's doorstep amd knocked sharply three times. There came shuffling from behind the door, and it creaked open just enough for Odette to peek her face out.

“Good afternoon!” Cyrus said, a goofy grin on his face. “It is, as always, a refreshing delight to see your radiant visage.”

Odette looked at him, looked at Therion, and then shut the door in their faces.

“Odette!” Cyrus called, banging on the door again. “That bit is only humorous so many times. Be reasonable.” He continued knocking until the door creaked open again, then he renewed his smile.

“She snuck out, Cyrus, I'm sorry,” Odette said. She noted the confusion on Cyrus’ face. “The girl. Theresa, or whatever.”

“Oh.” Cyrus considered. “I know that.”

“Isn't that why… that's not why you're here.”

“Goodness, no. May we come in?”

Odette eyed Therion. “Oh, you brought your burglar friend, marvelous. What was it again? Theodore?”

“Therion,” the thief said.

“Sure thing, Teddy.” She sighed and pushed back the door. “Come on in.”

Therion looked to Cyrus in protest, but he waved it off and stepped into Odette's front room. Therion shrugged and followed him.

They sat together on her sofa-- the same sofa burned into Therion's memory from the last time he was here, hiding in the closet, what seemed like years ago-- and Odette brought them some tea. Therion dumped about half the sugar bowl in his cup before he could tolerate it, while Cyrus and Odette exchanged their light hearted pleasantries and chit chat. She sat in the chair across from them, and kept glancing at Therion's hands, as if he was going to steal everything valuable from her while seated on her sofa, choking down her tea.

“So. Tell me why you're really here,” Odette said finally, setting her empty cup on the coffee table between them. “Though I'd like to think you're just favoring me with a social call, I doubt you're simply passing through, since Quarrycrest is only on the way if you're headed to the middle of nowhere.”

“Perceptive as always,” Cyrus said. “I came to inquire if you had any mythril among your geological samples.”

“I might,” she said slowly.

“I need it.”

“For what?!”

“We're on a quest.”

Odette laughed loudly. “A quest. To save the world, I imagine? I thought you were looking for an overdue library book.”

“I was. I still am. And the one who has it also possesses--” He was cut off by Odette's renewed laughter. Cyrus crossed his arms. “Well, if you're not going to listen, there's no point in me explaining.”

Odette fanned herself with her hand while she recovered. “I'm sure it's very fascinating, and you need my mythril to stop some sort of ancient evil from destroying all of Orsterra, or some such nonsense.” She shook her head. “But the stuff is rare, and expensive. I love you, Cy, but you just can't _have_ it.”

Therion cleared his throat. “How much is it worth?”

Odette looked at him, amused. “More than you've ever seen in your life, champ.”

Therion smiled. “Try me.”

“Ha! He's spunky, Cyrus, I can see why you like him.”

Therion reached into his tunic and removed a small handful of gemstones-- a half dozen in various colors, cuts, and sizes. Odette's eyes widened.

Cyrus eyed him as well. “Therion, where did you get those?”

“Doesn't matter.” He dropped them on the coffee table, spacing them out in the light. He nodded to Odette. “About the worth of your mythril, then? Plus a little extra for your troubles.”

Odette picked one up, studying it, then exchanged it for another. It was a while before she spoke. “So, these are obviously stolen.”

Therion held up a hand, defensively. “Don't make accusations you have no proof of.”

“Question is,” Odette continued, “can they be traced back if I try to sell them?”

Therion smiled slowly. “Not if you stay out of Wellspring.” 

“Perfect.” Odette grinned. She scooped up the gems. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Cyrus frowned. “What just happened?”

“Cy, your friend just bought you some shiny new mythril.” She stood up. “It's in my study.”

Cyrus and Therion followed her into a tiny room lined with bookshelves and cabinets. An overstuffed armchair sat in the center, next to a table with a lamp and a few more volumes and notebooks. 

“I'll have to dig it out of here,” Odette said, opening a cabinet stocked full of boxes and bins.

“Take your time,” Cyrus said, instantly drawn to the books on the center table. He picked one up. “It this Alric's finished manuscript?”

Odette glanced back over her shoulder. “He sent me an advance copy to review before he sends it to Stonegard for the official run.” She smiled at the look on Cyrus’ face. “Of course you can read it.” Cyrus grinned, and sank into the chair, focusing entirely on the pages open in front of him.

Therion sighed, and leaned against the nearest bookshelf. A spine caught his eye, gilded letters glinting in the lamplight: The Fall of the Kingdom of Hornburg -- Albright. Therion tugged it off the shelf. “Cyrus, you wrote a book?”

“I’ve written three books,” Cyrus said, not looking up.

“Liar,” Odette said, while she rummaged. “Two of those you co-authored.”

“True,” Cyrus conceded, “But the Academy always lists the names alphabetically, so the spines on both read ‘Albright et al.’” He glanced up at Therion. “Which is that? Ah, _Fall of Hornburg._ That one's all me.”

Therion let the pages flip rapidly under his thumb, just feeling the heft of them, wondering at the time it must have taken to think up and write down this many words about a single idea. Then he remembered it was Cyrus who was responsible for it, and then began to wonder why the book wasn't twice as thick. He ran out of pages, and the volume fell open to the front page. There was a handwritten note there:

_To the astounding, marvelous, sublime Odette--_  
This work would have never been completed without your undying support and encouragement. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude at your beauty, your brilliance, and your wit. I am eternally in your debt.  
Yours, Cyrus. 

Therion would have rolled his eyes and stuffed the book back on the shelf had his eyes not been caught up by the signature, with its curving flourishes. He traced his finger over the gracefully rounded curls of ink. He wondered if, as a child, Cyrus had covered pages and pages with his signature to get it to look like that. Then he wondered of Cyrus had ever even _been_ a child.

“Got it!” Odette said, pulling out a small chunk of silvery metal. Therion snapped the book closed and replaced it on the shelf. “I was saving it for a few experiments I had planned, but it I haven't gotten to them by now, I suppose they can wait.”

“Perfect!” Cyrus said. “Now we need to melt it.” 

Odette frowned at him while he explained, and then sighing, she acquiesced. Therion watched as the scholars went about settling a cast iron cauldron over the fireplace, melting the mythril by firing spells at it, then manipulating the strange, shimmering, magically charged liquid metal over two unhinged halves of a tin box large enough for two Dragonstones. The process took a while, and the two scholars kept Therion running to fetch different things they needed-- tongs, firewood, water, towels, and the like. Odette teased Cyrus the entire time, so much so that had it not been for Cyrus’ quick comebacks and the smiles on both of their faces, you might think they hated each other. 

By sundown, the process was finally complete, the halves of the container set aside to harden and stabilize before they would be joined with the hinge and latch. Odette sank into her chair.

“Exhausting work,” she sighed. “I'm beat. And hungry.”

“Indeed,” Cyrus said.

“You haven't gotten any better at cooking, have you?” Odette asked. Cyrus shook his head. “How about you, Teddy?”

It took Therion a moment to realize she was talking to him. He started to answer when Cyrus cut him off.

“We're both fairly useless in the kitchen, I'm afraid.”

“Pity.” Odette leaned her head back into the cushion of her chair. “The tavern does take-away. They've got decent stew. Oh, and cornbread. Get some of that.”

“Of course,” Cyrus was on his feet, pulling his cloak over his shoulders.

“Should I come with you?” Therion asked, torn between not being left awkwardly with Odette, and wanting to sit after being sent running back and forth for supplies all afternoon.

“No need,” Cyrus said. “I'll have returned before you can miss me.”

He was halfway out the door before Odette called out to him again. “Cy!” He turned. “Wine.”

“But of course,” he said, and was gone.

Therion stared at Odette, who looked at him down her nose, her head still falling back over the top cushion of her chair.

“So, Teddy, what's your story?”

“My name's not--”

“I know that,” Odette smiled, and leaned forward. “Where you from? Where you going?”

“Uh, nowhere important, and... it doesn't matter,” Therion said flatly.

Odette laughed with a sly smile. “Alright. Play your game. How long have you known Cyrus?”

“How long have _you_ known Cyrus?”

“Ages, it seems.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “He was eighteen when I met him. And I was twenty--” she stopped herself. “I was in my twenties.”

“You've been with him that long?”

“Define ‘been with’.” She laughed. Therion flushed.

“You know what I mean,” the thief said. “I know you guys have this history together.”

“You _do_ know that, don't you?” She laughed again, and Therion had to drop his eyes. “No, a relationship with Cyrus is… different.”

“What does that mean?”

“Are you two…?” She held up an index finger on each hand, brought them together, arching an eyebrow.

“Just explain what you meant.”

Odette's grin deepened. “Cyrus doesn't… _understand_ love. I don't know. Probably something his parents did to fuck him up. But don't get me wrong. He's very caring. He's protective. He's loyal. He's self-sacrificing. He most _definitely_ understands sex. But there's something undefined about a romantic partner that just doesn't click with his weirdly-wired brain.”

“How can you even know that?” Therion snapped. “Who the hell even knows what's going on in his head.”

Odette's smile turned bittersweet. “Because I have watched every relationship he has ever had crumble and fade away, and he simply moved on to the next task without any concern for it. Because _I_ dated him. For two years, thinking since we had known each other so long, it would be different. It wasn't.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I cheated on him-- I think on purpose, because I was a little mad at him for ignoring me too often, and also because I'm sort of a bitch, whatever-- and I straight up told him because I had no idea how he would react, and I wanted to see what would happen.”

Therion frowned. “What'd he do?”

“He said, ‘Oh,’ thought for a minute, and then asked me if I had yet read some paper written by one of our colleagues.” Odette laughed, and shook her head. “He lives in that mind of his, only deigning to visit with we pitiful mortals when it amuses him.”

Therion just shook his head. “No. No, it's not-- you can't even know…”

Odette smirked. “Ask him about it. He loves to talk, and he loves himself, so he should adore a chance to lecture about his favorite subject.”

The door burst open, and Cyrus had returned, smiling, food in arms. “This meal smells so wonderful, it barely made it home. I was all set to devour it as I walked.”

Odette rose, smiling back. “We'll eat in the kitchen. Pretend we're civilized.”

Therion was quiet through the meal, and when Cyrus asked his companions if they would mind terribly if he excused himself to the study to peruse that book that had interested him earlier, Therion only gave him a half-hearted nod. Cyrus patted the thief's shoulder as he left the kitchen. Odette smirked at him knowingly, waggling the nearly-empty wine bottle at him. He pushed his empty glass towards her.

As she filled his wine glass, Therion looked at the door to the study, where he knew Cyrus sat. For someone who talked so much, he had said so very little about himself.

\--- --- ---

_I was born and raised in Atlasdam. Prior to this current little venture, I had traveled very little. So, this entire experience has been enlightening in many respects._

_My father worked as a government minister, serving the King. Not the current one, mind you, his predecessor. He had quite a prestigious title, and a reputation for efficiency. He orchestrated the construction of that grand bridge at the entrance to the city, and he was enormously proud of it-- though you would never hear him brag. He spent nearly a year pouring over architects’ schematics, materials costs estimates, budgets and tax proposals, all in an effort to build the grandest, sturdiest bridge possible for the lowest cost to the crown. I daresay he succeeded. His second most ambitious public works project was the renovation of the central plaza, at the cost of half of a neighborhood and about twenty family homes. The crown paid for their relocation, and the plaza looks lovely-- but he never quite understood all of the ill will he received for issuing those eviction notices._

_We dwelled within a quaint townhome, in the front parlor of which my mother taught piano lessons to the children of the nobility and middle classes alike. She was quite skilled, and sought to pass those talents on to me. I never was able to achieve proficiency bu her high standards. Both my parents were a bit... distant. They saved their praise or admiration for only the truly extraordinary accomplishments, but they consistently demanded nothing short of perfection. My father would go over my schoolwork nightly, and if I so much as forgot to dot an i or-- heaven forbid-- I blotted the ink, I would be required to write it again in its entirety. I studied anywhere from three to six hours a night, and my mother wouldn't allow me to eat dinner until I had played my scales to her liking. At the dinner table, my father would quiz me on the various history or philosophical readings he had given me on top of my coursework, and if my answers were insufficient he assigned some sort of rote memorization task-- maths, poetry, speeches-- that I needed to recite before I could go to sleep that night._

_Weekends were hardly a respite. My mother took me to recitals, museums, galleries, bookstores to browse literature; my father brought me to science or philosophy lectures and political discussions with his colleagues. I was expected to listen, not speak, but still summarize the exchange to him on our walk back through town. If he found my understanding lacking, he would be sure to find me some additional reading on the topic._

_Thusly, finding a way for my brain to simply absorb all of this varied information was vital to my mental survival. If I could not perform satisfactorily, I was assigned more remediation. It was a joyous day indeed when my father decided I no longer needed to recite the multiplication tables from one times one to twelve times twelve every night. I could spend that time reading something of my_ choice _. It was liberating._

_And to credit my parents, I ended up as the most intelligent student in my primary school, so much so that they sent me to take classes at the secondary school at age eight. That sounds boastful, but it's true, and it gives one a sense of the situation. Imagine a tiny eight year old boy-- for I was small for my age until puberty-- sitting in a classroom of the teenage children of the local merchants and clerks and artisans, many who actively hated my father for the taxation policies he recommended to the crown. Needless to say, I didn't have many friends, nor did I have much in the way of hobbies or outside interests-- I simply lacked the free time and the opportunity to associate with an appropriate peer group. So I studied._

_But I was brilliant, according to my teachers, and that was something my parents could wear as a badge of honor, parade about at their social gatherings, earn the admiration and envy of political busybodies and socialites about town. On occasion, I was brought out during these adult gatherings, and asked to parrot some of the things my father had required me to memorize. Looking back, I wonder how I did not take offense and refuse to be treated like a performing monkey, but then I realize that… I craved the attention, the praise from these strangers. It was extraordinarily satisfying to have the seemingly endless gauntlet of hard mental work recognized. I lived for the grade reports at the end of term, as well. Nothing short of perfection would suffice, for myself or my parents. I came to crave the satisfaction of knowing I was a master of my mental state, that there was no knowledge I couldn't acquire and thoroughly comprehend. I was… a bit of an egotistical bastard. But, isn't that fairly commonplace for teenage boys capable of greatness?_

_I finished my course of study early, of course, at fourteen. Yet they refused to allow me to sit the entrance exam for admission to the Royal Academy until I was sixteen and a half, which I found unbelievably discriminatory. To occupy my time and keep my mind sharp, my father helped me gain an apprenticeship to the master librarian at the Academy-- a genial old man, who has long since retired. I gleaned every bit of information I could from the tomes and manuscripts I helped him organize, and he let me peruse any of them I wished when he didn't have tasks for me. All except those in the special collections, of course. It was here that I fell in love with academia. I always knew I would be educated at the Academy-- my father had told me this was my goal from my earliest memories-- but this was when I began to want it earnestly for myself. My parents were less controlling of what information I took in at this point, and I most likely would have been able to let the accustomed rigor wane-- but I was addicted. I was skilled at learning, and my curiosity had become insatiable. Now with the freedom to pursue whatever I wanted, and the skills to devour text upon text, I read voraciously for the two years of my apprenticeship._

_It was during this time that my family's home situation began to change. The King passed, and when his younger brother succeeded him, he fired all the former ministers in favor of those younger and fresher. My father lost his position, and struggled to find new employment, mostly because he was far too prideful to take an occupation he considered beneath him. We moved into a smaller home, and though I was paid for my services as an apprentice librarian, it was hardly enough to fill the gap from my father's lost earnings, and my parents were too proud to accept it. I spent much of it on groceries that I snuck into the pantry. My mother had to have noticed, but she never spoke of it. She refused to give voice to the idea that we were struggling financially, still putting on the façade for her nobility-aspiring friends._

_My parents struggled for the next few years, but in stiff-lipped, overly dignified secrecy. We sold furniture, clothing, jewelry, family heirlooms-- I would come home and notice something missing, but it would often take me a while to figure out exactly what had disappeared. Neither one of them would mention the financial situation out loud. They were forced to take out loans to cover expenses, and they had to put up my mother's piano as collateral. They fell behind on payments, and the collectors came, leaving them without any income whatsoever, as she could no longer offer lessons. They begged money from friends, which was a devastating blow to my father. He couldn't stand to be pitied. They hid this part from me, of course-- the graveness of the situation, the self-effacing supplication to friends and moneylenders, the indignity this reversal of fortunes had heaped upon them. I studied away in the library, preparing for my eventual admissions exam, while my parents attempted to find a pair of pennies to rub together._

_When the rent came due, and they had called in every favor they could think of, they were set to be evicted. I'm sure the irony of the situation was not lost on my father-- so reviled for his callousness in removing families from their homes for his city policies, anyone who heard about it must have attributed it to karma. I had no idea we were set to be homeless. I was simply the one who answered the door when the city watchman knocked early one morning. He wasn't there to evict us. He required either my mother or I to identify the body._

_My father, the night before, had gone out for a walk. He had been doing this, venturing out late at night, to “clear his head.” Atlasdam was safe enough, so my mother didn't worry. He typically came back before sunrise. But during his walk the previous evening, he had used some maintenance scaffolding to climb up the west tower of his grand bridge, contemplated the night sky-- according to the lone witness’ report-- and hurled himself into the river below. If the impact from the eighty meter fall into the water didn't kill him, the current rushing his body over they rocky river bottom had._

_I saved my mother the trip to the mortician’s with the watchman to identify what remained of my father, but I told him that I would have to return later that afternoon to make any kind of funerary arrangements, for I had a pressing appointment._

_It was the same day I had to sit my entrance exam for admission to the Academy, the test for which I had been preparing my whole life._

_It was nine hours of rigorous examination in twelve subjects._

_Each section required a personal interview with a professor knowledgeable in the field, as well as an essay or technical component._

_I was not allowed to leave the exam room to speak to my mother until I had completed it._

_The test must be scheduled at least six months in advance. Due to this, the Academy does not allow retakes. I was given a single chance._

_If there was any time I needed to keep my mind clear and organized, this was it. The images from that morning were mentally locked away, shoved in the deepest part of that forgotten drawer, while the test of my life lay before me._

_I received the highest composite score in exam history, including two perfect marks in history and mathematics._

_That record still stands. I check every year._

__That _is the power of unparalleled focus._

_Of course, I did not know my scores immediately, but I did know, upon my arrival home that evening, that my mother and I had to devise some sort of plan now that our home, our money, and my father were gone. I managed to convince my employer, the master librarian, to give us shelter for a while._

_That's when she finally had to admit it out loud. They-- we-- had no more money. All the savings had been depleted, banking on the chance of my father finding employment any day now-- and it just hadn't happened. It didn't really hit me, either, until that moment. I had been in as much denial as they, reluctant to give even mental voice to the reality of the situation. There was no way I would be able to afford the tuition for my planned education at the Academy. The exam hadn’t mattered in the slightest._

_Before my father's suicide, my mother had been composed, elegant, discerning. Afterwards, she was lost. She looked to me, her sixteen year old son who had most of his childhood scheduled and appraised by others, to suddenly give her direction for her life. I knew we could not intrude on my employer for long. I decided to pen a letter to my mother's sister in Goldshore. Without waiting for a reply, I had us pack up what little possessions remained for relocation to the Coastlands._

_I never received the letter with my examination results-- after all, I hadn't seen the point in leaving a forwarding address. The debt collectors’ notices found us just fine. When we settled with my aunt, I took a variety of jobs: as a scribe for a mercantile trader, where I recorded sales and produced receipts; as a clerk in a stationary store, which was actually more enjoyable than it may sound; and as a tutor for the children of the more well-to-do. I devoted the same tenacity to scraping together leaves from these and other odd jobs as I did in my studies, but I figured that Atlasdam and the Academy were long-missed opportunities, dreams of a path down which I could no longer travel._

_Eighteen months after settling in Goldshore, I received a visitor in a smart black and gold scholar's cloak. I was unspeakably envious. She sat in my aunt's front room, sipping tea as I stopped home between my shift at the shop and my afternoon tutoring appointment. I apologized, explaining that I had only enough time to collect my materials and perhaps a bite to eat before I had to run across town, but she stood to block my path._

_“My name is Odette Swann,” she said. “I've been sent by the Academy to change your life, Cyrus Albright.”_

_She had always had a flair for the dramatic._

_She sat me down, despite my anxiety to be tardy to work, and produced a folded sheet of parchment from her cloak._

_“Look at your scores.”_

_I was distinctly aware that my aunt and mother were eavesdropping from the other room. They liked to pretend to give me privacy, but I knew. I unfolded the paper slowly. I would be lying if I said I had not been curious, but I hadn't pursued any inquires from the Academy since I already knew my attendance was impossible. My eyes scanned the paper._

_“You were hard to track down,” Odette said. “You vanished from Atlasdam with hardly a trace.”_

_“This is a mistake,” I said, handing the parchment back to her, laughing. “These ratings are impossible. Are you even_ from _the Academy?”_

 _She refused to take the paper. “They sent_ me _to hunt you down_ because _those scores are impossible. I have personal letters from each of the twelve Professors who interviewed and assessed you,” she reached for her satchel, retrieving a stack of envelopes, “all inviting-- some pleading-- for you to attend.” She handed over the envelopes, all thick stationary sealed with the Academy's official seal, my name written on them in different handwritings. I couldn't open them. My hands were shaking too terribly._

_“All who interviewed you save one,” Odette clarified. “Professor Yvon said he was too busy.”_

_“The alchemy professor?” I inquired, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Cross-looking fellow with a mustache?” Odette nodded. “I didn't care for him.”_

_“Professor Winston, head of the history department, said he was so impressed with your interview exam that he said he wants you to have his position when he retires.” Odette laughed. “That thick one there is from him, where he goes on and on for_ pages _on how brilliant he thinks you are. He made me proofread it.”_

_I bit my lip to suppress the smile, but I tried to shake it off. The validation and praise felt wonderful, especially after the trials of adjusting to a middling life and a humdrum future. “I feel I may have already had this dream.” I set the stack of letters on the table beside me. “Although usually you're an elderly man who resembles Aelphan, and I have to solve an impossible riddle before you laugh in my face and I awaken. Let's just skip to that part, shall we?”_

_“Cyrus,” Odette said gravely, reaching across to take hold of my shoulders. “This is real. I did not travel here all the way from Atlasdam and go door to door in this backwater salt lick to be thought imaginary. You're going to come back with me, and you're going to be admitted to the Academy.”_

_My mother cleared her throat from the other room, and my aunt swept in, touching Odette's arm, graciously offering her more tea, guiding her subtly to lean back so she would let go of my shoulders. Heaven forbid I was ever allowed any physical contact with another human being._

_“Look,” Odette said, after she had politely declined. “I know you're worried about getting to your little tutoring job, or whatever. So I'm going to leave these letters with you. Read them tonight, and I'll come call again in the morning. I have a room at the inn, so if you have any questions, come by anytime. Even if it's the middle of the night. I've been studying astronomy this last term, so I'm awake at all hours anyway.” She stood to leave. “But I'll have you know two things. One, I've been told, only half-jokingly, that if I don't come back with you, I may as well not come back at all. And I'm stubborn as hell. Two, I have never heard some of these professors so… exuberant as when they talk about their interviews with you and the promise they see in you. You could be so much_ more _, Cyrus Albright.”_

_She left, thanking my aunt, and my mother braved entry from the other room. Since the relocation, she tended to shy away from social interactions, rarely leaving the house. Lately, she rarely left her room._

_“Cyrus,” she said softly. Ever since I could remember, she had the uncanny ability to convey several paragraphs’ worth of information with the cadence of her voice and the sternness of her mouth as she said my name._

_“I know, Mother,” I said. “I'll tell her in the morning that I cannot go with her, and she'll have to get over it.”_

_I raced across town to make it on time, but as the twelve-year-old merchant's son struggled through a few pages of a famed historical account I had read independently at age eight, I snuck those letters from the professors open inside my copy of the text. I poured over them, giving passing attention to the boy charged as my pupil, knowing I should not get my hopes up. I couldn't go. There were still outstanding debts owed to Atlasdam bankers, and although my aunt had subsisted most of her life on her earnings as a seamstress, both she and my mother were not getting any younger, their eyes and joints any better. I cleared it from my mind until the end of the session, but as soon as I left that evening, I poured over the letters again. I couldn't stop myself. I resolved to go to Odette that evening to decline, so I could finally put the impossible out of my mind._

_The innkeeper informed me she was in the tavern. I ventured forth, having never been in such an establishment before, and found her seated at the bar. Upon noticing me, she pulled up an empty stool and ordered me a beer._

_“Oh, no thank you,” I said, noticing the flush in her cheeks and wondering if she were already intoxicated._

_“Wine, then?”_

_“I don't drink. I'm not allowed.”_

_She met my eyes for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Mommy won't let you?”_

_“Condescension aside,” I narrowed my eyes at her, “our conversation will be brief. I'm afraid I must refuse your offer.”_

_“Cyrus, you are far too smart to be this stupid,” she said. “The Academy needs someone who got sent to secondary school and mastered Algebra by age nine. I mean, what is that even_ like _?”_

_“Lonely.” I surmised when her face fell that this was an incorrect thing to say, honest though it may be._

_“I'm sorry,” I dropped my eyes to the floor. “The truth of the matter is, I cannot possibly afford the tuition.” It still was shameful to admit. I could almost picture my mother hiding her face in humiliation if she had heard me say these words out loud. She still would not stand talk of finances, finding it unspeakably vulgar._

_Odette looked at me strangely. “Uh, what part of ‘full-ride scholarship’ did you not understand?”_

_My heart skipped a beat. “You hadn't mention anything about--”_

_“Full! Ride! Scholarship!” Odette threw her hands in the air dramatically, nearly spilling her glass. “That's food, lodging, books, supplies, all of it! They really want you, Cy. Can I call you Cy?”_

_“No one does,” I said absently, picturing the budget I had drawn up on a ledger back in my room. The math didn't check out. I shook my head. “My family--”_

_“There's work study opportunities and the like, if you need to send money home,” Odette said quietly. “Professor Winston would bend over backwards to find you a position.”_

_“I would need…” I ran the calculations in my head, working off memory, “at minimum two thousand leaves a month.” I whispered the figure, as old habits die hard. “Otherwise I'm only paying interest on the outstanding loans, and enough to support my aunt and mother--”_

_Odette's laughter cut me off. She proffered me her wine glass. “My stipend is more than double that,” she said. “And they love you. You will be fine.”_

_I stared at her, rapidly processing these shifts, looking for the catch-- there was always a catch-- whatever it would be that would force my hand. “I couldn't just leave…”_

_Odette pressed her wine glass closer. “This is a Merlot,” she said. “Tell me what you think, and we'll see if you fancy something lighter or bolder.”_

_I took the glass. It seemed like the only logical thing to do. I could taste the alcohol, but it was so smoothly folded into the flavor, it wasn't nearly as abrasive as I had imagined._

_“I rather like this,” I told her. She smiled and patted the stool next to her. I knew I shouldn't. I should have gone home, slept on the revelations, approached things with a clear mind, had a frank discussion with my family with how best I should proceed. I did not do this. I sat on the bar stood instead._

_“Atta boy, Cy,” Odette teased. She said this with a smile, so I assumed she meant no ill intent. “We can probably leave right away in the morning. The Headmaster loaned me a private carriage and a driver and everything.” She swirled her wine. “You need to tell anyone else? Girlfriend?” She arched an eyebrow. “...boyfriend?”_

_“No. But I will have to tell my employers,” I said. “Isn't a fortnight’s warning customary for leaving a position?”_

_“Are you planning to come back here and tutor snot nosed brats and push paper around?” Odette scoffed. “Just send them a letter that says you're going to the Academy. None of them will hold it against you unless they're huge assholes, and in that case, fuck ‘em.”_

_I swallowed my wine wrong and was reduced to a sputtering mess. I took inventory at the docks; I had assuredly heard such language before. But from a woman who was both beautiful and wearing the prestigious cloak of an Academy scholar-- it was not what I had been expecting._

_She clapped me on the back while I unbuttoned the top button of my collar, massaging my throat. The burn of the alcohol made me question my choice to imbibe it._

_“I'm sorry, I'm dorry,” she said. “Too much to have drinking and swearing in one night. Maybe once you get used to the wine, we can get you smoking or something. Or--” she gasped dramatically, “talking about sex.” She laughed, and I was very cognizant that she did not move her hand from my shoulder. I wondered why._

_When I had recovered myself, I spoke. “You know, I feel you have this impression of me as some sort of sheltered naïve greenhorn, completely unaware of how the world and society functions.”_

_She smiled a catlike smile. “Enlighten me.”_

_“Just because one chooses not to partake, does not mean one does not understand.”_

_She moved her hand, finally, and studied me. “Partake in what, specifically?”_

_“Well, for instance,” I motioned to the half-empty wine glass before me. “This is the most alcohol I've ever drank. But I'm well aware of its existence, effects, and why others might enjoy it.”_

_She leaned in, as if to look at me more closely. I did not back away, but met her eyes._

_“You know, I was just kind of messing with you before,” she said, “but now I'm thinking… you really are a virgin, aren't you?”_

_“I feel as if you're phrasing that intentionally to have a negative connotation.”_

_She laughed, and slapped the bar. “I don't believe you. Forgive me if I'm being too forward, but you are startlingly attractive.”_

_“I have heard that.”_

_“Ha! And modest, too!”_

_I dismissed this, laughing along. “I haven't had the time. Nor the interest, in truth.”_

_“The interest?” She looked at me strangely.  
I knew I shouldn't have said anything, but she was rather easy to talk to. I realized I enjoyed her candidness, her easy laughter, and even the good-natured teasing, to an extent. I sipped more wine while I formulated my next words. “I can certainly appreciate beauty in others, but I never quite understood the… motivation… to pursue romantic entanglements. It seems rather arduous and time-consuming.”_

_“Motivation?”_

_“Is that the wrong word? How do I phrase this…?”_

_“Most people pursue relationships for the companionship. And the… physical benefits.” She winked at me, which I had learned long ago signified scandalous subtext._

_“You are implying sexual intercourse,” I clarified._

_She descended into raucous laughter that I admit, stung slightly. “Oh, my Gods, you are too precious. Of course! You're a guy, right? Isn't it innately programmed into your lizard brain to want to reproduce at all possible opportunities?”_

_“I'm not certain if I should be offended by that or not.”_

_“You're telling me you don't have desires. What do you think about when you masturbate?”_

_I’m sure I flushed a deep crimson at that point, and all I could do was shake my head and stutter. “I… I don't.”_

_“You don't.”_

_I assured her of the negative, staring at my empty wine glass. “Do you?”_

_“Everyone does! Of course I do. What do you with those random bouts of arousal that just happen during the day? I assume for men it's much more difficult to ignore.”_

_“I typically focus on something else until… until it fades.”_

_“Wow. You are quite the interesting case study, Cy.”_

_I was quiet after this, as the bartender refilled our glasses. I knew I was outside the norm in many respects. I had enough constant reminders of this throughout the typical course of my day, and occasionally it was stated out loud. I long ago had learned to try to skew such mentions as compliments, but the constant mental gymnastics grew tiring._

_Odette broke the silence. “I didn't mean anything negative. I love it.” She downed half her wine in one swallow. “It's just your face. It’s so… pretty. It doesn't make sense. And you've never even kissed anyone?”_

_I took a swallow of wine myself. “No.”_

_“Would you ever want to?”_

_I sighed. “I mean, I'm always open to new experiences, but as I mentioned, I don't see the reward in pursuing romantic--”_

_I felt her hand on my shoulder, sliding forward to my cheek. The chill of her fingers made me realize how warm my skin was, and I suddenly could only think of the heat in my face spurred by the alcohol and the delicate nature of our conversation. My heartbeat was noticeably elevated. I was thinking only about these physiological responses when she leaned in to kiss me. The new proximity of her body, the lightly floral perfume of her hair, the paradoxical softness and urgency of her mouth, the taste of the wine on her lips-- it was overwhelming to the senses. Her hand curved around my shoulders, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. She pulled away and I was left frozen, bewildered, mouth agape. It was too much at once, too much to shut away, too intruding on the mind._

_“Well?” She looked uncertain for the first time since I had met her earlier that afternoon._

_“I need to go home.” I rose quickly, yanking some coin from my pocket, the room swaying slightly. I dropped the leaves on the bar and pushed away towards the door._

_“Cyrus, I'm sorry!” She rushed after me, but was blocked by some patrons who rose coincidentally between us._

_I emerged into the chilly, salty night air, hoping it would cool my nerves. I paused long enough outside the tavern that Odette was able to catch up to me._

_“I apologize, that was out of line, and I--”_

_I realized then she may have taken umbrage at my hasty exit. “I did quite like that.”_

_“What?”_

_“The kiss. But I must return home. I was expected over an hour ago. Please excuse me.”_

_“Cyrus Albright.” She stared at me, muttered my name, some inscrutable mixture of expression on her fine features. “At least walk a girl home? Or to the inn, I guess.”_

_My mother had made sure to instill chivalry deep in my marrow. “Of course.”_

_She latched on to my arm, the wine clearly having its effect, and she babbled on indistinctly about past romantic interests and rejection, all jumbled together without regard for chronology. I concentrated more on my steps, pouring over the decision I knew I would be forced to make regarding my future education._

_The Goldshore Inn had exterior doors to the private rooms, each with a partially-screened porch whereupon a tourist could watch the sunset over the distant sea. The sun had long since set, and Odette guided us to her particular inn room, thanking me for the escort home. I stood beside her, watching her struggle to fit the key in the lock. When it slid in, she turned it, but did not open the door. Instead, she turned to me._

_“Cy,” she said, shaking her head at me. She leaned in to kiss me again, and I permitted her to, though I knew I shouldn't have. The intensity of the physical contact was addicting. I embraced her, fully aware of the jitter of my nerves. I settled into this interaction more comfortably than the first, as I now knew what to expect. Instead of the flood of new, almost frightening sensations, I could concentrate on the varied effects the kiss was having on me physically and emotionally. I moved my lips against hers, mirroring the movements she made that seemed to elicit the most pleasurable sensations. I felt her respond, and that was a new exhilaration-- creating pleasure in others through my actions, and the personal fulfillment that created. It was something I would come to crave in time, the same way I had sought out the approval and praise of others as a child, I would seek the satisfaction of spurring others’ physical enjoyment as an adult._

_However, my first taste of this achievement was cut short by a new, unexpected development. Odette had moved her hand to the front of my trousers, massaging what she discovered there to a full erection. I froze, mortified, and she noticed. All concentration was now centered on the movement of her hand against me._

_“Should I stop?” she asked, and I couldn't form coherent words. I simply shook my head, sure my eyes were wide, my breathing quickened. She smiled, and undid the fastening, sliding her hand under the cloth, seizing hold around my most sensitive part. The skin on skin contact was overpowering. I rarely had any physical contact with anyone, platonically, so this was unignorable in intensity. My nerves and mind were aflame, sensation racing through my brain, I was hardly able to get a coherent thought in edgewise, other than the insistent need for her to continue her motions as she touched me. I was gripping her shoulders, breathing heavily, awash in feeling. As the pressure built, it squeezed every last thought out of my head. My long-praised, highly tested, eternally chattering mind, hopeless to quiet under my own power, surrendered to the pleasure elicited by the simple movement of her hand over the crudest part of my body._

_She moved aside and my release shot out to land on the ground at her doorstep. I stared at it, gasping for breath, pondering the machinations of my body and how another could manipulate such a total reaction from it. As I marveled, she kissed me again._

_“That wasn't to convince you to come with me to Atlasdam,” she whispered. “This is because you are weirdly handsome, and you have this strange awkward nerd vibe going on that I am really into right now.” I could only stare speechlessly at her. “Besides, I kind of have a boyfriend right now?” She shrugged. “I don't particularly like him much, but he serves his purposes. So this was a one time thing.” She kissed my cheek. “Goodnight, Cyrus Albright. I'll see you in the morning for our ride to your future.”_

_She disappeared into her inn room, and I was left trying to both redress myself and recover my thoughts. I stole through the breezy night, eager to get home, where I could sit in my bedroom and sort through everything that had happened in these past few hours to upturn my reality._

_I opened the door slowly, and crept into the house quietly, expecting both my mother and aunt to have long since retired to bed. Imagine my surprise when I found the light on, my mother sitting beside it, lowering her book to her lap. She regarded me sternly._

_“Mother,” I said, carefully closing the front door behind me. “I hope you did not wait up on my account.” I felt she somehow knew what had transpired outside the inn, though she had no way of doing so._

_“I was concerned about you, Cyrus dear.” She motioned for me to come closer, so I did. “You went to speak to that… woman from the Academy, did you not?”_

_“I did,” I admitted. “She gave me some more information. I think--”_

_“You cannot go.” She said this with such finality, I could feel my shoulders collapsing._

_“It will not cost us anything. And I--”_

_“You mean to leave me here? Alone?”_

_“But Aunt Catherine--”_

_“Some thanks I get for working to provide you with the very best, for encouraging you and supporting you throughout your entire childhood, only for you to abandon me when some flashy tart shows up promising you the moon and the stars.”_

_I was at a loss. I knew there was nothing I could say that would make her hear me. I simply dropped my eyes._

_“I do hope you're not about to cry,” she said. “I raised you to be a stronger man than that.”_

_“No, you did.” I steeled myself. My gut felt hollow. My heart was breaking, but I tried to ignore it._

_“You are all I have left, Cyrus,” she said, her voice straining. “Since your father--” It was like a sudden jolt in the room, the way the memory shot through each of us, and we both quickly stifled it. “My son,” she said. “My only son. Would betray me and abandon me, after all we've been through.”_

_“I won't,” I said quietly. “I will stay.”_

_She smiled, relieved. “I couldn't bear to lose you, Cyrus dear.”_

_“I know,” I said. “I must adjourn to bed. I have work in the morning.”_

_“Get your rest,” my mother said. “Goodnight, Cyrus.”_

_“Goodnight, Mother.”_

_I went upstairs, defeated. There was the catch. There always was one. I entered my room and sank onto my bed, holding my head in my hands. It had been over before it had begun. I was foolish to get my hopes up. And yet Odette, and the world and future and opportunity and experiences she promised…_

_There was a quiet knock on my bedroom door. I looked up as it opened slowly, my aunt peeking her head inside. She held an old, worn suitcase in her hands. I stared at her as she crossed to set the suitcase down next to me on the bed._

_“You have a lot of packing to do if you're to be ready to leave by morning,” she said, a sparkle in her eye._

_I shook my head. “My mother--”_

_She waved a hand dismissively. “Alexandra will be fine. I will look after her.” She smiled at me. “Go. You deserve more than we can offer you, Cyrus. Go and make us proud.”_

_I penned nearly a dozen letters that evening. Many went to the families I tutored, as well as one to each of my other employers, apologizing that I would no longer be able to lend my services. One was a thank you note to my Aunt Catherine, who would likely be asleep when I departed the next morning before dawn broke to meet Odette and embark on our carriage ride to Atlasdam._

_The last was a letter to my mother, begging forgiveness, stating my case as clearly as I could._

_During the following years, I sent her and my aunt all of my extra earnings, including a letter to each at least every other month. They received the bonus I earned upon being hired full-time as a professor, and the royalties from everything I have ever published. I have even written home out here on my travels, dropping a letter off at the larger towns we pass through. My aunt occasionally has chance to respond, and I cherish her letters._

_My mother has never sent a single reply._

\--- --- ---

Cyrus looked up over the top of his book, noticing the thief leaning in the doorway. “Therion? You look like you have a question.”

“No. No, I'm good.” He hesitated a moment longer, not wanting to fully commit to entering the study. “You can keep reading, it's fine.”

Cyrus hesitated a moment before returning to his book, but he did. Therion watched for a handful of heartbeats, before stealthily crossing the room. 

He stood by the scholar's side, watching Cyrus’ eyes trace rapidly over the words on the page. Therion watched the flutter of his eyelashes, the rise and fall of his chest, the slight curl of his lower lip. Slowly, he slid himself onto the arm of the chair.

Without looking away, Cyrus transferred the book to one hand, curling the other around Therion's waist. The thief took this as an invitation to slide slowly down into the scholar's lap, laying across him sideways, resting his forehead against Cyrus’ shoulder. He unbuttoned the lower buttons of the scholar's vest, just enough to slide his hand in around Cyrus’ stomach and up his chest, just wanting to be closer to his skin. Cyrus’ free arm stayed curled around his lover, and he leaned in to leave a kiss on Therion's forehead. 

“You sure you don't want to talk?”

Therion nodded against Cyrus’ chest. “Keep reading.”

About an hour and a half later, Odette entered the study. She picked up the book from where Cyrus had let it fall when sleep had claimed him. She shook her head, smiling at the pair asleep in the chair, the thief curled in the scholar's lap, their arms around each other. She tugged a blanket over them, extinguished the lamp, and left them to rest.


	22. Secondary Jobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrus and Therion travel one way to the Frostlands, while Primrose and H'aanit head around the other way. They all have some time to learn from each other.
> 
> This was supposed to be just a short, cute little chapter. I think I have a word problem.

“The first step is to clear your mind.” Cyrus sounded as if he had done this hundreds of times before.

“Okay.” Therion sat cross legged on the dusty ground on the path leading out of the Cliftlands.  
His eyes were squeezed shut. “Do I like, do something with my hands?”

“Not at first.” Cyrus crouched in front of Therion on one knee, their eyes level. “First comes the mental work, to tap into the currents of arcane energy. Once you are able to reach those, you can channel it-- shape it with a spell, direct it with a motion. Finding your way in is the most difficult part. Once you have it, it's easy to reconnect.”

Therion breathed in deep. “So I think about nothing?”

“If you can. I can't do that, so I focus on something rhythmic. Breathing, pulse, sometimes wordless snippets of song… whatever you can hear in the background of your mind. Let's just try with breathing, that works with most people.”

“How many people have you taught this to?”

“Only a handful, myself. But it's something that needs to be taught, since you typically need contact with someone who can reach it themselves with you, in order to be successful. Very few people just stumble into it on their own. The Academy tries to keep it regulated and restricted, something I disagree with on a philosophical level, but I digress. Your breathing. In, and out. In, and out.”

Therion followed Cyrus’ soothing voice as he matched his breaths to the words. He felt his muscles relax and his pulse steady as his breathing became slower and fuller. Cyrus took Therion's hands in his own, holding them loosely, while he continued to guide the thief's breath with his words.

_He taught Prim this same way, holding her hands like this._

Therion wrinkled his nose at the thought, feeling his breath stutter and his body stiffen.

“Intrusive thoughts break your concentration,” Cyrus said calmly. “If you notice one, just let it float on by, or tell it you'll store it away for later, and return to your breathing.”

Therion nodded, and focused on his exhalations, following Cyrus’ voice. He could listen to that forever.

“Once your mind is clear,” Cyrus said, speaking low and soothingly, “you begin searching for your channel. It's different for everyone, so you search around your mind until you locate it.” Cyrus slid his thumbs over Therion's palms, circling lightly in the center while still holding them underneath. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. “Some describe it as distant music they can't quite hear until they mentally move closer, others describe it as more of a physical sensation, a sort of warmth they are drawn to, or a kind of light in the distance.” Therion did see something in his mind's eye. A hidden glittering, but he couldn't focus directly on it. It was some kind of shimmering treasure, but always at the periphery of his focus. “Mine is a whispering that seems to come from another room, and you just know they're talking about something fascinating.” 

“I see it,” Therion said, “But I can't--”

“Let it come to you,” Cyrus said, closing his hands further over Therion's. They were warm, and his touch tingled with latent magical energy. “If you chase it, it will always outdistance you.”

Therion stared at the shimmering in his mind, trying not to let frustration distract him. _Had it been easy for Primrose?_ The gittering grew dim, and Therion concentrated on his breathing until it returned, but it was barely any closer. Cyrus’ hands were on his, still, which had to be a part of the process. It was a far more intimate feeling than he had expected from the high and mighty nature of magic users. _Did he teach that girl who stalked and manipulated him? Is this where she became obsessed with him?_

In an instant, the shimmering vanished, and Cyrus’ hands seemed to grow cold. Therion growled in frustration and opened his eyes.

“You lost it, it happens.” Cyrus said. “It's alright. We can give it another attempt.”

Therion jerked his hands away, crossing them under his arms. “I can't do it.”

“Surely you can.” Cyrus was all positive smiles. “Few get it on their first try.”

Therion rolled his eyes. “I bet you did.”

“Well,” Cyrus shrugged, “that may be true, but it isn't the norm.”

“Who taught you?”

“Odette.”

Therion nodded, but said nothing, staring at the pebbles on the ground between them. 

Cyrus held out his hands. “One more try?”

“Not right now.” Therion pushed himself to his feet, wiping the dust off the seat of his pants. “It's a long walk to the Frostlands.”

\--- --- ---

“Standen with thine feet pointed this way, angled to thine target.” H'aanit's hand was on the dancer's hip, shifting her body. Primrose let herself be guided as the huntress adjusted her shoulder, pressed gently on her back to straighten her posture.

“And our target is that knot in that big tree there?”

“Aye. But do not feelin bad if thou misseth. ‘Tis a skill. Now. To holden thine arrow…”

Primrose followed the H'aanit's example, letting the huntress’ touch adjust her fingers. The journey had become much more pleasant once they had left Therese. The girl had refused to get on a ship in Rippletide alone, and since they wouldn't allow Linde on board, they had been forced to make a decision. Therese had stuck with them through the Flatlands, alternately annoying H'aanit and tugging at Primrose's heart. Though she could occasionally act like the spoiled, entitled brat, other times Prim could see Therese for what she was underneath-- a scared, lonely girl who was trying to take control of the path of her life, and floundering miserably. She saw Yusufa. She saw herself.

They had dropped Therese off in Atlasdam, a quick detour as they passed through the Flatlands. The girl had hugged Primrose close, while H'aanit had hung back, fearing Linde would frighten travelers.

“I'm sorry I was so snippy with you,” the girl had said. “You've been nothing but nice to me.”

“It's okay.” Primrose had stroked her hair. “I'm just happy we could get you home. Now you can go back to your regular life.”

Therese had pulled away, eyes wet. “I don't think I can.”

“You have to try,” Prim said. “Sometimes change can be hard, but you just have to keep your head high.”

“No,” Therese said, shaking her head. “I think…” She leaned in close, her voice a shaky whisper. “I think I might actually be pregnant.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Primrose embraced her again, before the realizations clicked into place. The dancer's eyes widened. “Oh! Sweetie!”

Therese's voice was muffled against the dancer's body. “And I don't know what I'm gonna do. It was all my fault. I thought I wanted it. I didn't listen.”

“You can go to an apothecary,” Primrose spoke quietly. “Not all of them will do it, but--”

Therese backed away, realizing what the dancer was suggesting. “I… I couldn't.”

“And you want to go through it all? The pain? Then having to care for it, if bearing it doesn't kill you, like it does for so many?”

“I…” 

There were tears in the girl's eyes, so Primrose softened her tone. “Think about it. But don't wait too long. After enough time, the apothecaries can't do too much. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.” Therese gave her another hug, then turned to head across the grand bridge at the entrance to Atlasdam. 

“Steady thy breathing,” H'aanit was saying, as Primrose stared down the length of an arrow at a knot in a far tree. “I shute mine left eye to focus.”

Prim closed her left eye, then switched to her right, then back again.

“When thou loosest the arrow, keepest thy arm and body straight until it hitteth.”

Primrose exhaled slowly, kept her eye on the target, and loosed her fingers from the bowstring. The arrow shot forth, the string hitting against the leather guard on her forearm that H'aanit had loaned her. The arrow lodged in the tree, about a hand's breadth from the center of the knot.

“I hit it,” Primrose said, disbelieving.

“Thou didst!” H'aanit said. “‘Twas a very good first shot. Thou hast a good eye.”

Primrose turned to her, feeling a certain satisfying pride in this show of strength. H'aanit was smiling. The huntress set a congratulatory hand on the dancer's shoulder. Prim slid her own hand over the huntress’.

\--- --- --- 

“It's about misdirection, more than anything else,” Therion explained. “You just need to make sure whoever you're stealing from is focused on something else.” 

The sun shone through the green canopy above them as they walked through the forested path.

“I have heard the warnings,” Cyrus said, “when traveling in unsavory neighborhoods, that thieves often work in groups. One or two will stage a distraction, like a fight or a street performance, while the others empty the purses of those so distracted. So the warning was to keep moving, or to keep one's valuables close.”

Therion laughed. “And that's even better, because then when you're checking your valuables, you tell everyone watching exactly where they are. Might as well just wear a sign that says ‘rob me’. Or, get them distracted with something innocent.” He jumped up onto a log fallen over the path, lending a hand back to help Cyrus over. “Used to run that show as a kid. The youngest ones of our little group would go act all scared and crying that they lost their ma, rest of us would clean up. That's how I got into it, honestly. They needed a little distraction kid, but I didn't stay cute that long.”

“Where did you grow up?”

Therion narrowed his eyes. “You've asked me that before.”

Cyrus smiled. “You didn't answer then, either.”

Therion snorted. “‘Cause it's not important.”

“Well, you don't do that now,” Cyrus reasoned. “You've said you prefer to work alone. And I certainly haven't been serving as a distraction.”

Therion laughed again. “You'd be surprised. You actually make a pretty good one.”

Cyrus furrowed his brow. “How is that, then?”

“All those times you've stopped in the street to ask people questions, or started going on about whatever to random people we happened to be standing near? They all left with lighter pockets, that's for sure.”

“Well, I…” Cyrus pondered this. “I never saw you.”

“That's sort of the point. And people just _love_ to look at you, and listen to you. You're an amazing distraction.”

“Ah, so that's why you've kept me around.”

“No, it’s--” Therion stumbled slightly, but caught himself. He turned to Cyrus, relieved that he was smirking. He shook his head. “Anyway, I don't need it. You learn to make your own distractions.”

“Like what?”

“Simple stuff,” Therion shrugged. “Like there's the obvious pretending to see something in the distance, but there's al--” Therion's words were cut off as he tripped, falling forward against Cyrus. The scholar caught him before he hit the ground.

“You alright?” Cyrus asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Therion said, standing. “Anyway, people only focus on one thing at a time. So you just need something bigger to keep them occupied, and they don't notice the little feeling of things leaving their pockets.” Therion held up the small black notebook Cyrus kept in the breast pocket of his cloak.

Cyrus clutched at his now-empty pocket, mouth agape. “I didn't feel a thing.”

“You did, you just paid more attention to me falling over like an idiot. Here.” Therion handed the notebook back. “You could probably do it just as easily. Probably even more easily.”

“But I couldn't try it on you,” Cyrus reasoned.

“You think I'd catch you?”

“Because you will be expecting it,” Cyrus said. “I'll have to wait until you're distracted.”

“You can't use the tripping thing, I already did that one.”

“No,” Cyrus mused, that intensity creeping back into his gaze. “I'll have to find some other way to make sure your mind is preoccupied.” He had the slightest curl of a suggestive smile on his lips.

\--- --- ---

The cold hit hard in Flamesgrace, but Primrose and H'aanit had come prepared. They had collected skins from animals on the way, as Primrose had honed her skills with the bow, and they aimed to trade these for finished fur-lined clothing with the merchants in the snowy town. Primrose couldn't layer on the extra warmth quickly enough. The leggings and cloak she had purchased for the trip though the mountains hardly kept out the deep, insidious chill of the Frostlands.

“Thou hast not been this far north?” H'aanit asked, watching Primrose pull a fur-lined hood over her head. 

“I've been in the Sunlands for the last ten years.” She rubbed the fur against her cold cheeks. “I haven't had to wear clothes like these in so long. It feels so cozy. Almost luxurious.”

“It suits you,” H'aanit said, her eyes on the dancer.

Primrose felt a surge of warmth. She was used to compliments, but they usually came when far more of her skin was exposed, and the giver wanted something from her. In her warm weather gear, the only bare part of her was her face.

“Back out on the trail, then?” Prim asked, distracting herself. “I'm sure Linde is waiting anxiously.”

“Linde shalle be fine,” H'aanit said. “The Frostlands are her homeland, after all. I thoughte we might sleepen in town this night.” 

Primrose warmed at the thought of a real bed, a cozy fireplace, and especially a bath after nights out under the stars. “Ooh, that would be wonderful.”

“To finden an inn, then.” H'aanit nodded.

“And a tavern,” Prim suggested. “I want to dance.”

Primrose had always adored dancing. The feeling of walking on air, of surrendering her body to move with the music, and letting herself flow with the beat was often enough to turn away the more distasteful parts of her former life. When she was on stage, she was free. No one could touch her, no one would stop her. She could leave onlookers energized, contented, or mesmerized, all based on the movements of her body. She missed it. Additionally, it was a decent way of making some coin-- they would need provisions for the journey ahead, where things to gather and even game would be more scarce.

It was nearing dinnertime, so the tavern would be bound to fill up within a few more hours, enough for Primrose to convince the owner to give her some stage time, and hope for some musicians. The first struggle was just finding the tavern. Flamesgrace was an old city, built and rebuilt, with buildings heaped on old ruins haphazardly and narrow streets zigzagging up around old structures. 

Once they located the tavern, Primrose tried not to be discouraged by the lack of music. It was still early in the evening, and traveling minstrels always turned up to earn some tips. Prim and H'aanit pushed inside. The interior was dark, cramped, and smelled stale-- not the sort of establishment she had expected. There were some grizzled patrons hunched at tables, only a few bothered to look up at the pair as they entered. The door banged shut behind them at the same instant Primrose realized she was in the wrong place. She turned to leave, but H'aanit was close in behind her.

“Can I help you?” a voice behind them croaked, not sounding eager to assist at all.

“Sorry, I was just looking for a place to…”

The man's face wasn't ugly, but the harshness in his sneer as he ran his eyes over Primrose made him seem so. She was conscious of the shadow on her eyes, the rouge on her lips. She knew it was silly to keep making up her face out on the road, but it felt comfortable. Now, it seemed like she had painted a target on herself.

“A place to what?” he said impatiently.

She looked around at the hollow-eyed patrons appraising her. She spoke quietly, inflecting a bit of a smile, a bat of the eyelash, a turn of the hip. “Dance?” 

The tavern master frowned deeply. “Dance?! Like some kind of harlot?! What kind of business do you think I run, here?!”

_Clearly not a profitable one,_ Primrose thought, but she held her tongue. The man was getting angry. She knew better than to make strange men angry.

“I… I apologize,” she said, casting her eyes to the floor reflexively. “I did not mean to question your moral sensibilities, sir.”

“Is there another tavern in this town?” H'aanit interjected, her voice calm.

The tavern keeper saw this as a slight. “No place for your wanton folly in Aefric's patron city. Begone with you, temptress, before I call the Knights Ardant and have the sin exorcised from you in the cathedral!”

The dancer's jaw dropped. Sure, this was the seat of the Church of the Sacred Flame, but she hadn't expected this kind of hostile prudishness from the townspeople. She eyed the tavern keeper from her peripheral vision. _He probably waters down his ale and calls it his holy duty to protect people from drunkenness._

H'aanit gripped her shoulder, and Primrose felt herself shift towards the solidarity of her touch. “We weren mistaken. We will be going. Good day, sir.”

“Go ply your trade up in Stillsnow. They'll welcome your filth.”

Primrose tried to keep the hatred in his voice from cutting into her as she and H’aanit returned to the icy air outside. The huntress kept her hand on her shoulder, and Prim was thankful for it. As soon as they were outside, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin.

“I have decided I do not like Flamesgrace.”

H'aanit laughed lightly. “A healthy respect for the Gods is one thing. The holy folk here aren a different breed.”

“I don't believe in the Gods.” Primrose pulled her fur cloak tightly around her shoulders.

“I woulde not sayen that too loudly, here.”

Primrose glanced around, but the frozen street was empty. “Let's just find the inn.”

They found their way to their destination, and Primrose let H'aanit do the talking. The innkeeper gave the huntress some strange looks and asked her to repeat herself quite a few times. Primrose tried to intervene, but H'aanit insisted. The inn keeper was clearly struggling, finally resorting to just ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions… or in H'aanit's case, ‘aye’ and ‘nay’. Through it all, H'aanit kept her tone cool, though Primrose could see the little lines of frustration around her tightened lips. They finally got their room key, and H'aanit stormed away, striding up the stairs two at a time. Primrose hurried to catch up to her.

“I do not liken Flamesgrace either,” she said. “My speech is not difficult to understanden.”

Prim smiled, and shook her head. “I like your way of speaking. It reminds me of a fairy tale.”

The room was at least nice. There were two beds with some grandmotherly patchwork quilts, a cheerful fireplace, a little table and chairs, and a washstand with painted floral patterns on the pitcher and basin.

Primrose sank down tiredly on the bed, sliding the cloak from her shoulders. She watched it pool around her hips on the coverlet, and she wondered at it, this skin that was not hers. She could cover herself in it, yet that tavern keeper saw right through it-- saw to what she truly was.

H’aanit set her pack down near the door, unstrapped her boots, and stepped out of them. “Thou dost enjoy dancing?”

Prim forced a smile. “I do. I suppose it is not as accepted in all parts of Orsterra.” She cast her eyes to her snow-crusted boots, and leaned down to unlace them. “I suppose that means I am not as accepted in all parts of Orsterra.”

“Thou art more than one thing,” H’aanit said. “Thy occupation is but a part of you. Thy interests are but a part. Thou art far more than that.”

_But I have just the one drive, the one purpose. My vengeance._

H’aanit continued. “And thou art free from that place. Free to be thy own. Thou dost not need to hiden behind a mask.”

Primrose looked up at her, quizzical. H’aanit was searching out her eyes, though her jaw remaned fixed. 

“I oversteppe my bounds. I apologize.”

“No, I--” Primrose rubbed a hand over her face. “I know I don’t need the makeup. It’s just a habit, and…”

H’aanit shook her head. “T’is not what I meant.”

Primrose studied the huntress’ eyes. H’aanit turned away.

“Thou art beautiful regardless of thy paint.” H’aanit went to the fire, holding her hands in front of it to warm it, avoiding Primrose’s curious gaze.

“H’aanit…” Primrose said slowly, savoring the taste of her name on her tongue. “Would you want to dance with me?”

The huntress turned, slowly smiled, and tried in vain to suppress it.

“I thought since you’ve taught me so much about hunting, I might return the favor,” Primrose said, rising, leaving her cloak on the bed. “I’m afraid I don’t have that much to teach you, unless you want to learn about how to lead men on.”

H’aanit smirked. “I doth not have much use for that.” She crossed to the dancer, holding out her hands. “But I woulde try my luck at dancing.”

Primrose smiled, taking the huntress’ hands in her own, guiding them to her shoulder and her hip. She shuffled their bodies closer together, feeling the warmth grow both inside and out. A hint of a song murmured in her throat.

“I shalle followe thy lead.”

\--- --- ---

“I see it,” Therion said, “I just can’t reach it.”

His hands were nestled in Cyrus’, his eyes squeezed shut, that glittering effervescent vision-- what he assumed was the path to awesome magical abilities-- danced aggravatingly on his peripheral vision. He had been crouched together with Cyrus for nearly a half hour now, the cold sinking into his bones. The Frostlands were unforgiving, and Cyrus had insisted they remove the thick gloves the thief had obtained for them to try the magic for about the seventh time. Cyrus had said necessity would motivate him, but the chill seeping in under the stolen overcloak and into his toes was more of a distraction. He breathed heavy against his scarf, which he had looped up over his mouth. The glitter wavered just on the edge of his mind, flitting away every time he tried to focus on it.

“It’s no good,” Therion sighed. “I’m not smart enough, or something.”

“Intelligence has little do do with it,” Cyrus said. “But even if it did, you are far more clever than you give yourself credit for.”

Therion felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He wiggled his face down further into his scarf. “It’s too cold,” he complained.

He felt Cyrus drop his hands, only to take his face between his palms, his fingers oddly warm against Therion’s flushed cheeks. The thief peeked through his eyelashes to see Cyrus looking at him, that intense gleam in his eyes, a content smile on his face. Therion felt the warmth flow through him from the scholar’s touch, and the distant glittering flashed in front of his consciousness, spinning past to the other corner of his mind.

“I saw it!” Therion said. “I almost got it!”

“Concentrate,” Cyrus said. Therion closed his eyes, searching it out again. It wavered around the back of his mind, but it felt more like a pursuit, now, than a futile goose chase. He drew closer and closer, screwing up his face as he tried to reach it. Everytime he felt he had it, it flitted away. 

Suddenly, Cyrus’ lips were on his, warm, almost electric. The glittering slid to the forefront of his consciousness, and he latched on. There was a buzzing current of adrenaline running through him, a high like that drunken feeling of invincibility, like what he felt when he was getting away with a dangerous score. The glittering was gone, because he was in it, or it was in him. Thoughts whirled though his mind, too fast to be sensical, too much for him to react to. This was it. This was the channeling Cyrus was talking about, the contact with the arcane, the passageway to the magical intangibility. _When you’ve made a connection, the words will come,_ Cyrus had said. _The spell cannot be realized without speech, but the words are different for each individual. You must only tell the arcane energies what you want it to become, and it will heed you._

Therion held his hands before him, as if he were cupping a precious treasure. His lips parted, but no words came out. He was supposed to just know? Just saying the word ‘fire’ was too simple. Commanding the flame? Some kind of rhyme, some kind of cryptic message? None came to mind. The only thing he could think of was the warning issued to him as a child when he saw how fast he could pass his hand through a candle flame without being burnt.

“Don’t play with fire,” he whispered, feeling foolish. The warmth ignited between his hands. He opened his eyes to see the spark swell into a bright orange flame, pulsing hot between him fingers. He stared at it, eyes shining.

“I did it!” he yelled, and as soon as he did, the flame vanished. He looked up at Cyrus, who was grinning wide. “Cyrus! Did you see?”

“You did wonderfully,” Cyrus said, taking the thief's hands in his again, and leaning in for another kiss. 

Therion rode his success for the rest of the day as they trekked further into the Frostlands. They had stocked up for the journey-- not only had Therion snuck them some clothes and provisions from the towns along the way, they had debated and finally decided on some portable shelter for the icy nights. Therion carried their small tent folded and slung over his back, wrapped in the goosedown blanket Cyrus had told him would trap their body heat and keep them from freezing to death during in the dark. 

When the sun grew low, they found a sheltered place to set up camp. Cyrus encouraged Therion to light their campfire, and though he tried, he couldn’t produce a second flame large enough to light their collected heap of firewood. Discouraged, Therion decided he would just struggle with their little tent instead. Within moments, Cyrus had mumbled a phrase and the fire was lit.

“Like any skill, it comes with practice,” the scholar reasoned, but Therion didn’t acknowledge him.

They ate as the sun set. As soon as they were out of both sunlight and warm food, the cold crept in vengefully. Therion shivered up to Cyrus’ side, and although the scholar fed the fire dutifully, the chill was relentless.

“We could retire to the tent,” Cyrus said. “Theoretically, it should keep up warm enough.”

“I don’t want to be theoretically warm. I want to be actually warm,” Therion grumbled. “Have I told you I hate the cold?”

“Thirty-seven times, now.”

“Ugh.” Therion’s teeth chattered. He tugged on the ends of his scarf, which he had wrapped up over his head, and trundled towards the tent.

“Moving away from the fire was a bad idea,” Therion groaned, wriggling into the tent. He wrapped the blanket around himself as Cyrus followed him in. The small space inside filled quickly.

“Kinda… snug,” Therion said. 

“A smaller space means our shared body heat will be easier to trap,” Cyrus said, unhooking his cloak, but keeping it wrapped around his shoulders. “Are your boots still on?”

“My feet are cold.”

“They're covered in snow,” Cyrus said sternly. “It's wet.”

“Fine.” Therion bent as much as he could to untie his boots and kick them outside the tent. “Now my feet are colder. Happy?”

“Thank you,” Cyrus said, leaving a kiss on Therion's forehead. Then another. Then a third. “I like this. You can't squirm away.”

“Hey,” Therion faked indignation, then pulled his scarf and tunic up to hide his face while he burrowed under the blanket.

“You think that can stop me? You underestimate my tenacity.” Cyrus dove under the blanket after him, pulled up the thief's tunic, and meet his lips. 

Therion pretended to be annoyed, but secretly, he was relieved. They hadn't done much together except the occasional touch or kiss-- nearly always initiated by Therion-- since Bolderfall. Cyrus hadn't pulled away, but… he had still felt guilty. Now, the scholar's kiss was warm, welcome reassurance. He melted into it, his hand curling into Cyrus’ hair.

Cyrus sought out Therion's chest, but when his fingertips touched warm skin, the thief jerked away.

“Cold,” Therion said, breathless from the shock.

“Apologies.” Cyrus brought his hands up to his mouth to blow over them. Therion smirked, but then felt along Cyrus’ arms, enclosing his cold hands, lending his warm breath to the effort to chase the chill from the scholar's fingers. As he brought his breath close, he let his lips barely brush against against Cyrus’ fingertips, just enough to tickle his nerves. It was too dark inside the tent to be sure, but Therion felt the intensity of Cyrus’ eyes, searching for him in the shadows. 

Therion let one of the scholar's fingers slide into his mouth, sucking lightly, teasing it with his tongue. He took in a second, aching to see Cyrus’ face, to see his reaction, to know he was watching. The scholar's other hand brushed against his cheek, then along his neck. His hands were still a little cold, but more of a slight chill than a startling iciness. 

Therion leaned in to find Cyrus’ lips again, drinking in the warmth their proximity brought. He took the scholar's hand from his mouth, moving it down his body, sliding it against the stirring desire below his waist. As Therion clung to the kiss, Cyrus’ hands worked to undo his belt, shifting his touch against that most sensitive part beneath. Therion leaned into it, pressing close to the scholar's body. His hands grabbed at Cyrus, clutching handfuls of his clothes.

Breathing hard, Therion broke away reluctantly. He couldn't concentrate on unbuttoning Cyrus’ vest with the distraction of his kiss. The scholar took his hand away for a few agonizing moments to shrug off the garment. Therion pressed against him urgently in the dark, lifting Cyrus’ shirt, lips against his chest. The scholar's hand found him again, and Therion rocked into the sensation, driven by desire.

He wanted nothing other than to wrap his lips around Cyrus’ cock, take him deep into his throat. The narrowness of the tent frustrated this, and unless he wanted to stick some part of him outside of the tent-- he didn't-- he couldn't reach. He wanted more of Cyrus. He needed it.

He wriggled his pants down over his hips, ignoring the cold hovering just outside the tent. Cyrus’ hand moved along his newly bared skin, pulling him close. The scholar’s own desire was hard against Therion’s thigh. The thief reached for it, freeing it from constraining clothing, his mouth moving along Cyrus’ chest. He sucked at this skin of his neck, his collarbone, his nipple, while his hand stroked. Cyrus sighed against him. Therion couldn’t contain himself.

He twisted around, making sure to keep the blanket wrapped over them to trap in their warmth. He rubbed his ass against Cyrus, feeling the scholar’s length slide into the heat between his thighs, along the cleft of his rear. Therion wriggled in the cramped space to yank his foot out of one pants leg, working to shift his hips and lift his knee, spreading his legs apart enough for a decent angle. He took Cyrus’ hand from his own arousal, wetting two fingers in his mouth, then guiding the scholar’s hand to his entrance. Cyrus slid a finger inside while he sucked lightly on the thief's earlobe, adding a second as his free arm curled up beneath Therion, hugging him close.

Therion moaned despite himself, rocking back against Cyrus’ fingers, yearning for more. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it, how much he was lacking since they had left Bolderfall. “Cyrus…” Therion sighed into the darkness of the night.

The scholar’s lips were at his neck, murmuring a gentle, “Mmm?”

“I want you so bad,” Therion whispered. He was afraid at first Cyrus hadn’t heard him, and he would have to admit it again. Then he felt the scholar’s fingers recede, something larger and warmer angle against him.

Cyrus kissed Therion’s cheek, holding him still in that close embrace.

“You have me,” he said quietly, before he lifted Therion’s knee towards the top of the tent, spreading him further, and pressing inside his body. Therion groaned in the satisfaction of being filled with the comfortable familiarity of Cyrus’ cock.

They moved together in the dark confines of the tent, the scholar’s hand reaching around to stroke the thief’s length with every thrust of his body. Therion buried his face against Cyrus’ other arm, still curled around his shoulders from under his neck. He let himself be lost in the closeness, the building warmth within his nerves, the music of Cyrus’ heavy breath at his ear.

He felt himself reaching the edge quickly, deep was his want. He reached to slow Cyrus’ hand, bringing it up across his stomach instead. His breath was hot, forming little beads of condensation on the inside of the tent just in front of him. He leaned into the gyrations of Cyrus behind him, heat building between them. He slid his hand back along Cyrus’ thigh, around the curve of his rear, trying to pull the scholar deeper within him. He felt Cyrus’ muscles trembling beneath his touch, and used his other hand to guide the scholar’s hand back over his own arousal. He wanted them to reach that peak together.

Therion had misjudged his own desire and the depth to which he had needed this intimacy. A few long strokes and he felt the climax rock through him. A stifled cry escaped his lips as his back arched against Cyrus. The scholar buried his face in Therion’s hair, tensing the arm looped under the thief, squeezing the two of them together. Therion stiffened every muscle as he came, his body tightening around Cyrus’ cock, pulling the scholar with him into bliss. 

They lay together, both waiting for their breath to steady. Therion snuggled in close beneath the protection of Cyrus’ arms, warm now, finally.

Therion drifted off to sleep after half-heartedly wiggling back into most of his clothes as the cold threatened to creep in. He dreamt of scattered, disconnected images until he was roused by a grunting and shuffling that sounded terribly close. His eyes popped open, immediately alert. He had turned in his sleep to face Cyrus, and he shook the scholar awake as the noises continued.

“Wake up!” he hissed. Cyrus’ eyes opened slowly.

“It’s not morning,” the scholar said hazily. There came another heavy grunting from outside the tent, and Therion felt Cyrus’ body tense against him. Therion fumbled for his dagger, but in the tight shuffle of his disrobing, it had gotten pushed somewhere down by his feet.

“Some sort of animal,” Cyrus whispered. “You don’t suppose--”

As he said this, a fur-covered face pressed through the tent flap at their feet, ripping the ties apart with a large pawful of claws. The beast sniffled with its long muzzle before opening a mouth of teeth and stale breath. Cyrus shrieked. Therion did the only thing he could think of. He reared back his leg, and kicked the bulky creature square in the nose.

The beast reared back, roaring in pain. Therion found his dagger, thrusting his head from the tent in a burst of nonsensical rage. In the white light of the gibbous moon, Therion saw the bear, a broad, heavy beast, huffing as it circled for another lunge. This is when he realized that he had made a mistake. The bear charged at him, and his blood ran cold. He squeezed his eyes shut, and anticipated his early death, but all he heard was Cyrus’ voice beside him and the agonized cry of the animal. He smelled electrically singed fur. He looked just in time to see the shocked animal lumber off in retreat into the dark distance. 

“Holy shit,” Therion gasped. He barely felt the cold through the ebbing rush of fear. Cyrus burst out laughing. 

“We almost died, or something!” Therion elbowed him in the ribs. “The hell are you laughing about?”

“You kicked a bear in the face!” Cyrus lost himself in laugher again. Therion couldn’t help but be caught up in it, near-death experience nerves getting the best of him.

“Oh. But that’s distressing.” Cyrus stopped laughing, pointing to the ground outside their tent. A trail of dark shapes was laid out on the snow. Therion squinted, recognizing a few of the books Cyrus carried in his ridiculously heavy pack. A few shreds of the material remained, barely recognizable.

“You had our food,” Therion frowned.

“ ‘Had’ being the operative word.”

\--- --- -- 

Therion hadn’t slept much after the animal encounter, fearing its return. They weren’t disturbed any more that night, and in the morning, they tried their best to round up what they could find of Cyrus’ things. The food was gone, devoured by the bear before he had tried his chances in the tent. Therion warmed himself by the reignited campfire, stomach growling, while Cyrus attempted to fashion their blanket into some kind of bag to hold his non-edible belongings 

“Do we turn back?” Therion asked.

“I’m fairly certain we are closer to Stillsnow than anywhere else.” Cyrus struggled with his task, frowning. “Though if I am any judge of our pace and the remaining distance, we shan't reach it before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

“Great,” Therion moped.

They set off, making their way from one half-buried trail marker to the next, trying to focus on anything besides the prospect of the future missed meals. Cyrus had the hood of his cloak pulled up, while Therion buried as much of his face under his scarf as he could. The previous night’s encounter had put him on edge. Every rustle of the wind in the trees had him flinching towards Cyrus. They had all been false alarms, and he was beginning to grow weary of the waves of panic until he actually did see a pair of emerald eyes regarding him, crouched in the distance. He halted in his tracks, staring at the new threat, grabbing Cyrus’ arm.

“A snow leopard,” Cyrus whispered.

“She’s over here,” a feminine voice called out, and a gray-furred human form slid out from behind the wintry foliage. She paused when she reached the creature, following its gaze towards the two men frozen in the snow. She pulled down her hood, revealing flowing brown hair and delicately painted eyelids.

“Cyrus?” she asked.

“Primrose?!” Cyrus grinned. “By the Flame, it is you!”

Primrose laughed as another woman emerged behind her, this one taller, broader, and sterner. She placed a hand on the snow leopard’s back, regarding the two men with the same look as her feline companion.

Cyrus stepped forward, closing the snowy space between them, all smiles at the dancer. “Why, fancy meeting you here! A welcome surprise! How are you faring? And who is your new companion?” The scholar smiled warmly at the huntress as he extended his hand. “Cyrus Albright. Professor at the Royal Academy in Atlasdam...er, until recently.”

“H'aanit.” The huntress eyed him with caution as she accepted the handshake. “Of S’warkii. This is Linde, my companion.”

“Beautiful,” Cyrus said, admiring the animal but speaking to H'aanit. He nodded over his shoulder. “And this is Therion.”

The thief nodded to the huntress, his arms crossed. He caught Primrose's hard glare and quickly looked away.

“Why are you guys here?” Primrose asked. “I thought you had to go back to Bolderfall.”

“We did,” Cyrus nodded. “And our next destination happened to be Northreach.”

“We left Stonegard at the same time…” Primrose said, perplexed.

“We did taken our time,” H’aanit reasoned. “We oft stoppen to hunt.”

“A serendipitous occurrence,” Cyris nodded. 

There were several moments of awkward silence. Primrose looked to Cyrus, and could think of nothing else but her encounter with Therese. Therion stared at Primrose, wondering how angry at him she still was, and if it was warranted. H’aanit watched the thief and the scholar with the same apprehension she had for all strangers. Cyrus studied Linde, fascinated by the sight of such a powerful predator up close, sitting demurely at the huntress’ side. And Linde, for her part, raised her front paw to give it a quick cleaning.

Therion cleared his throat. “So you have any food, or what?”

\--- --- ---

The group continued on together-- after Therion’s hunger had been pacified by some dried fruit from H’aanit’s pack. The huntress and her companion led the way, and Cyrus fell into step beside Primrose, talking easily with her as if they had been best friends since childhood. He made references and smiles in Therion’s direction, but the thief ignored every invitation into the conversation he was provided. 

Primrose couldn’t help but think of Therese, but still she held her tongue. She and Cyrus had little else but each other’s company for three long days in Wellspring, waiting for Therion to recover. She knew that if she said a word, he would turn right around and head to Atlasdam. He would consider it his responsibility, even though she had heard the unspoken subtext and lies in Therese’s account of the situation. And she saw the way Therion was looking at him, the way his face brightened just that little bit under that moody scowl he was affecting… the thief might be irritating, sure. But he had suffered too much for her to take that little bit of happiness from him.

Primrose realized she was staring at Therion when he darted his eyes away, settling them on Linde. Cyrus had let his voice trail off.

“So, the cat,” Therion said, loudly enough for H’aanit to hear. “Does it bite?”

The huntress glanced back over her shoulder, not breaking her stride. She smirked. “Not unless thou bitest her first.”

Therion gave her a mocking smile. Cyrus quickened his pace, to close the distance between himself and the huntress.

“H’aanit,” Cyrus began, “would you mind terribly if I inquired a bit about your homeland? S’warkii, you said, correct?”

“Aye,” the huntress said cautiously.

Cyrus was grinning. “I must say, I find your dialect fascinating. Now, from what I’ve read…”

Primrose watched their conversation, the animation on Cyrus’ features as he talked, the way H’aanit’s features slowly relaxed and her tone became more comfortable. He certainly had a way of putting people at ease. And if she hadn’t known better…

She caught Therion’s eye and motioned to the two walking ahead of them. “He’s like this with every new person he meets, isn’t he?”

Therion regarded her for a bit, digesting the question. He glanced forward at Cyrus, then back at the dancer before nodding. “He was the same way when we met you. It's not like he's shy.”

Primrose laughed. “I can see why you hate me.”

“I--” Therion began, but he caught himself. The rest of his sentence turned into a grunt. Prim smiled. 

When they stopped that night to make camp, they divided up the work. H’aanit and Linde went out to find dinner. Therion rounded up some firewood, while Primrose demonstrated the snow cave shelter that the huntress had taught her. 

“Though we’ve struggled to light the fire every night,” Prim said. “You two probably had it much easier, with Cyrus’ magic.” 

“Therion can do it as well, now,” the scholar said.

Primrose smirked at Therion. “You can do magic.”

Therion dumped the bundle of wood from his arms. “You think that’s funny?”

“No.” Prim failed to suppress her smile.

“Watch.” Therion arranged the wood carefully, then crouched in front of his structure. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and sought out that elusive channel to the arcane.

“Are you doing it?” Primrose asked.

“Shut up,” Therion snapped.

“Fire magic is a little different than dark magic,” Cyrus whispered to the dancer.

Therion tried to shut out their voices. Every moment that eked by made him more and more anxious to avoid failure. He felt their eyes on him, Primrose’s critical, but Cyrus’ hopeful. With that thought, the sparkling flew to the front of his consciousness, and he latched on more easily this time. A few muttered words, and the flame ignited before his hands. Primrose gave a little shriek in happy surprise. He opened his eyes to the flickering light, satisfied.

“It seemed easier for you that time,” Cyrus said. 

Therion agreed, poking the fire, encouraging it to spread and flourish.

“Now if only one of us learned how to cook,” Primrose laughed, stepping away to tend to her shelter.

Therion stared into his little fire, basking in warmth and pride.

“Therion,” Cyrus asked from behind him, “may I use your dagger?”

“Yeah, sure, I--” Therion stood to pat his waist and then his pockets, failing to locate his blade. “I think I dropped--” 

He turned back towards Cyrus, and let his hands fall to his side. The scholar stood there, a dumb grin on his face, the dagger perched on his fingertips.

Therion smiled wide, realizing what had happened. “Congrats, Professor. You passed your very first course on pickpocketing.”


	23. Stillsnow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a two-parter, since H'aanit's and Primrose's chapters are running simultaneously. Cyrus and Therion are nice enough to help out.
> 
> Oren (the carriage driver in Primrose's chapter) is OOC, I guess, but did he even _have_ a character?

Upon entering Stillsnow, leaving Linde to stalk the hidden perimeters of the town, the group made for the tavern without discussion, eager to leave the cold behind. With a round of hot drinks-- tea, coffee, warm milk, and hot cider-- they began to attend to the business at hand.

“We could probably make use of your skills, at least to get some leads,” Primrose said, nodding to the men. “Both of you are pretty good at finding out the things people try to hide.”

“It would be our pleasure.” Cyrus smiled genially. Therion nudged him in the side, giving him a sharp glare. Cyrus dropped his voice. “We could at least repay them for the meals they’ve shared.”

Therion sighed. He wasn’t especially eager to share Cyrus’ attention, or remain in the Frostlands longer than necessary, but the path forward didn’t strike him as appealing, either. “Fine. Whatever. We need to what, find a whore house and a crazy witch lady?”

“Fortune teller,” H’aanit corrected him.

“And the brothel isn’t exactly in town, from what I’d heard,” Primrose said. “We’ll have to find a path, or someone to take us there, and then find our way in.”

“Breaking and entering is definitely within your skillset.” Cyrus lifted his cup towards Therion. 

“I suppose.” Therion sipped his cider, relishing the warmth on his tongue. “Though sneaking four people and a big cat into anywhere without being noticed will be a feat.”

Primrose shook her head. “Just you and me. It’ll be easier that way. H’aanit and Cyrus go find the wit-- er, fortune teller.”

Therion narrowed his eyes.

“That does seem logical,” Cyrus said. “And I would be lying if I said I was not intrigued by the idea of a rustic seer. I would like to meet this Susanna for myself.” He gave a deferential nod to the huntress. “If that’s alright with Miss H’aanit, here.”

“I doth not mind.”

Therion frowned. “Fine. But I swear to Aeber, if you make me dress up like a whore again…”

“Don't be silly, there's no need.” Primrose laughed. “And besides, you were a dancer before, not a prostitute. There's a difference.”

Therion smirked. “Is there?”

“Be nice,” Cyrus whispered, placing a calming hand over his forearm. The thief felt himself relax at the touch.

Therion sighed. “Okay. So we hang out here until it starts getting busy, do a little listening in? Ply some marks with ale and your dancing to get them to talk?”

Primrose grinned. “Exactly what I was thinking. Dazzled eyes may loosen lips.”

“And we will go seek out the residence of this famed seer.” Cyrus rose from the table, hitching his hood back over his head to brave the cold.

H’aanit turned to Primrose. “Thou art alright with this plan?”

The dancer nodded. “We’ll be fine. Both Therion and I are much tougher than we look.”

“Hey!” Therion interjected. H’aanit ignored him.

“Thou takest care, Primrose. Stayen safe.” She gave her a final nod, then stood to leave with Cyrus. 

Primrose watched her go, contentment on her face. Therion watched the whole exchange with confusion.

“Is she into you?” Therion leaned forward to whisper. “Is she into girls? Are _you_ into girls?”

Primrose laughed. “You’re kind of useless at intuiting these things, aren’t you?”

\--- --- ---

H’aanit watched as the scholar intercepted a few people struggling through the cold in the Stillsnow streets. Despite their desire to hurry to a warm destination, with a charming smile and a flattering compliment, Cyrus was able to put each person at ease long enough to talk to them and find out several vital pieces of information that he reported back to the huntress. He had discerned the location of Susanna’s house, ascertained that most people were afraid of her, that rumors abound about her powers, and that she had a mute bodyguard named Alaic who prevented those who were brave enough to try and see her from actually doing so.

“So we challengen this Alaic to proven our strength.” H’aanit clenched her fist.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cyrus said. “Perhaps we just go speak with the fellow.”

“Thou saidest he was mute.”

“Mute, not deaf.” Cyrus pointed up the hill, to a large house with a red roof. “It’s worth a shot, anyhow.”

The two trudged up the incline. They reached the house, and H’aanit approached to knock. After three resounding booms, the door opened, and a large man filled much of the entryway. Staring forward, he stepped outside without any concern for H’aanit and Cyrus. They quickly backed out of his way. The door shut resoundly behind him. He stood in front of it, arms crossed. H’aanit met his stony glare with one equally rigid.

“Excuse me, kind sir.” Cyrus swept forward, all charming grin and sparking eyes. “My name is Professor Cyrus Albright, of the Royal Academy in Atlasdam. My lovely companion here and I were hoping to make some inquiries of your Mistress, Susanna? It would be astoundingly helpful if we could just--”

Alaic extended his hands, squared them on Cyrus’ shoulders, and shoved him backwards. The scholar caught himself just before he went tumbling into the snow covered path.

“Well, that’s terribly rude,” Cyrus muttered, straightening his cloak.

H’aanit’s frown deepened. “I shalt calle Linde. She shalle endeth this foolishness.” She raised two fingers to her lips, ready to whistle for her companion.

Cyrus stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t just sick a trained predator on anyone you disagree with.”

The huntress whirled. “Pray explainen why I cannot.”

Cyrus gave her a patient smile, then turned back to Alaic. “Surely, sir, there must be some way to demonstrate the strength of our resolve. Miss H’aanit here is in dire need of your Mistress’ wisdom, and surely would do anything required to arrange a meeting. Indeed, we--”

Cyrus trailed off as Alaic held up a finger to shush him. He moved over to a small ledge protruding near the door, and brushed the accumulated snow off with a smooth swipe of his arm. He slung off his coat and tossed it aside, revealing thickly muscular arms beneath. He knelt on one side of the ledge and set his elbow on it, holding his hand up, fingers outstretched. 

H’aanit nodded, sliding off her own cloak. She handed it to a perplexed Cyrus as she strode over to kneel opposite the bodyguard, settling her elbow and clasping his hand.

“Arm wrestling?” Cyrus asked. “Really? I suppose I expected too much in these uncivilized frontier towns…”

“Husheth,” H’aanit said, squaring her eyes on her opponent. “Art thou ready?”

Alaic nodded. At once, both tensed their biceps, locking into the battle of might. Cyrus watched with interest as their quaking arms and stiffened wrists hardly seemed to move. He was sure Alaic would win soundly, possessing the male advantage of increased upper body strength, but H’aanit seemed to be meeting him with equal force. He watched the surprisingly developed muscles of her arm strain as the huntress leaned into the challenge with clenched teeth. Alaic seemed surprised, as well. Then he made his mistake. He looked up from their clenched hands to the huntress’ face, just as a stray lock of hair slid free from her brow. It brushed across the bridge of her nose, and without weakening her grip, H’aanit found it with her eyes, and blew a puff of air up from her lower lip to brush it back to the side of her face. In watching to make sure it left her field of vision, she ended up looking straight ahead at Alaic. The bodyguard reddened, flushing a deep crimson. His arm slipped back slightly, and H’aanit smiled at her advantage. The smile did him in. The back of Alaic’s hand crashed down against the cold ledge between them, and H’aanit leapt up in victory. Cyrus cheered.

“T’was a good contest,” H’aanit said, nodding to the bodyguard. “But I hath wonne my right to seen the fortune teller.”

Alaic grunted, rising to his feet and averting his eyes. His cheeks still burned a deep red. He moved between them to open the door to the fortune teller’s house, leading the huntress and the scholar inside to meet Susanna.

\--- --- ---

Primrose twirled on stage, catching the eye of much of the tavern’s clientele. A trio of musicians played for her, and the tavernmaster was overjoyed to have such an entertainer keep the patrons in their cups so early in the evening. Therion did what he did best-- slunk around, unnoticed, with his eyes and his ears open. 

It was after almost an hour of finding out that the good people of Stillsnow had very few interesting things to say that Therion spotted a woman in cheap, but showy jewelry enter the tavern. She stared wide-eyed at the stage and gasped to herself. Therion’s lip-reading was only passable, but there was no mistaking the whispered name on her lips: Primrose. He watched her with interest. 

When she sank down at a table, Therion ordered a second ale and angled towards her. She barely looked away when he sat down and slid the mug towards her. It took her two glances at him before she really acknowledged that he was there.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not working tonight,” she said hurriedly, her eyes flitting between him and the stage. 

“Then you definitely deserve a drink.” Up close, Therion could see that she was a lot older than the cut of her dress suggested. The powder had sank into the emerging wrinkles near the edges of her eyes and mouth. She studied him, her gaze resting on him for the longest time yet. He smiled good-naturedly. “I’m not looking for a girl. I’m just here to support my friend.” He nodded towards the stage.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “You’re here with Lady Primrose,” she whispered.

Therion sipped his ale, and chose his words carefully. “You seem to recognize her.”

“I never thought I’d see her again.” She shook her head, then downed half of her ale in a few thirsty gulps. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingertips. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten myself. My name is Arianna. I--”

The musicians ended in a flourish, and Primrose took a final turn on stage. The tavern burst into applause, cheers, and whistles. Therion looked up to catch her eye, and nodded. Primrose thanked her audience, and begged them pardon for a break. “You are all too handsome, and too kind!”

Arianna started as she saw Primrose leaving the stage. Therion grabbed her arm as she rose, harder than he had intended. Her eyes grew wide.

“Please. Stay.” Therion tried to make his voice as calm as he could. “I’m sure it would mean a lot to Primrose to see a familiar face.”

He felt Arianna relax under his grip, and he slowly released her arm. He gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile, and raised his glass to her. She clutched for the ale, gulping it down. Primrose was extracting herself from her admirers in the crowd, making for the table. She was nearly there before she recognized the woman sitting opposite Therion.

“By the Flame… Arianna?!” Primrose’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Primrose, oh, I never thought I’d see you again!” Arianna rushed forwards to embrace the dancer. They parted, but still held each other’s hands. 

“How are you? What are you doing in a place like this?”

“I could ask you the same thing, my lady.” 

Primrose dropped her voice. “I’m looking for a man. A man who has wronged me. He owns a brothel near to this place, and he has a tattoo of a crow on his left arm.”

“I--” Arianna hesitated, panic and realization in her eyes. “I cannot help you. I don’t know anything about him.”

Therion laughed, despite himself. Both women looked over to him. He shook his head. “Sorry, lady, but you are a Gods-awful liar. Maybe want to try that one again?”

Arianna frowned, while Primrose clasped her hands between her own. “Please, Arianna. It’s for my father.”

She looked dismayed, then glanced nervously around the tavern. “Alright. But we can’t talk here. We’ll go some place private.” She eyed Therion as he attempted to down the last of his ale. “I suppose your boyfriend can come.”

Therion choked on his beer.

Arianna led them to her dormitory, sneaking them up the back stairwell into her tiny private room. There she revealed, with melodramatic flair, information that Therion had assumed was obvious the entire time. She was, in fact, a whore, and she did work at this brothel that Primrose was trying to find. The place was secret, though not the best kept one, and a driver came to pick people up from a designated meeting place every evening. They had to convince this driver to let them ride. She wouldn’t be coming with them, as this was her first night off in nearly a fortnight. She also made some veiled references to knowing Primrose’s family ‘before’... before Primrose’s father was murdered, he supposed. The dancer hadn’t mentioned all that many details about her journey, at least to him, but he knew she was after vengeance. Something about the way they were discussing this, however, made him think that Primrose’s father wasn’t just some ordinary working man. And hadn’t she called her ‘Lady Primrose’?

“Pray tell me,” Arianna said, after finishing her warnings about the stubbornness of the carriage driver, “What do you intend to do?”

Primrose’s jaw tightened. “Only what I must do.”

\--- --- ---

When H’aanit and Cyrus entered the fortune teller’s parlor, she was already standing, balanced on her walking stick, awaiting them.

“Ah yes,” she said, her elderly voice cracking. “Come on in, H’aanit the huntress, and you too, Professor.”

H’aanit’s eyes widened. “She is an oracle,” she whispered to Cyrus. “She knoweth my name.”

Susanna cackled in mirth. “You mean a fur-clad hunter, all the way up here? Had to be Z’aanta, or his ‘prentice. Seeing that you’re not a middle-aged man, you must be the latter.”

H’aanit frowned. “Nay, but he--” She turned to Cyrus.

“I’m wearing a scholar’s cloak,” Cyrus smirked, clearly amused. “A simple deduction.”

Susanna laughed again. “Very good! Looks like some of you academics still have a lick of common sense.”

“But then thou art a fraud.” H’aanit crossed her arms. “But thou admistist this… so thou art honest.”

“Better than the alternative,” Susanna said. “Come, come. I don’t often care to have visitors, but I will make an exception for Z’aanta’s ‘prentice. Why, you’re practically my granddaughter! Good to see you, after only reading about you in Z’aanta’s letters! And so successful you are, to have come all this way, and caught yourself such a handsome devil as this one.” Susanna leaned in towards Cyrus.

“What?” H’aanit said flatly.

Cyrus laughed. “Oh, no, madam. We’re merely acquaintances. I was intrigued to meet a real life seer, so I asked to accompany her.”

“Is that so? I could still let you get to know a real life seer, if you’re interested.” The old fortune teller flashed a toothy grin. “What are you doing later tonight?”

“If I coulde beg pardon,” H’aanit interrupted, irritated. “My master hath been turned to stone.”

“Stone,” Cyrus whispered to himself. “You hadn’t mentioned that part.”

They sat on Susanna’s old, worn sofa while H’aanit related what she had learned so far. She had found her Master petrified outside of Stonegard, and she knew such a curse could only be the work of the legendary beast, the Redeye.

“I encountered this Master of yours, as well,” Cyrus said. “The man was completely unresponsive. But before I could investigate further, Therion and I were attacked by a vicious dire wolf.”

“T’would be Hägen,” H’aanit said. “He is Master’s companion, as Linde is mine. He hath chosen to remainen at Master’s side, to protecten him.”

“The only way to break such a curse,” Susanna said, her face growing grave, “is to slay the beast what originated it.”

“T’is as I fearede.” H’aanit rose quickly. “I muste make preparations to fighte the beast.”

“Not so fast, little missy,” Susanna said, knocking the huntress on her shins with her walking stick. “The Redeye is no ordinary beast.”

“Wise Susanna, pray tellen me what must do!”

“I’m about to, if you’d just sit down and button your yap!”

H’aanit sat obediently. Cyrus leaned forward, intrigued.

“Now,” Susanna began, her voice taking on a deep, storyteller’s quality, “The Redeye… is not so much a beast, as an entity. A being of despair, born from the darkest of all magicks. It latches on, invades one's innermost thoughts, relishing your fear and your anguish. When it grabs a foothold into your mind, it starts… speaking to you. It convinces you of your fears, your failures, your weaknesses, your pain. It is relentless. It feeds on your despair and self-loathing. Soon enough you lack the energy to go about your day. You lose the will to speak, to eat, to sleep. Finally, your muscles stop responding, as you slip into a petrified sleep, your body rigid, your eyes unseeing, your heartbeat imperceptible to others. This is the fate that has befallen poor Z’aanta. He is not stone. He probably wishes he were. Though he is unmoving, his mind is awake, swirling with thoughts of self hatred and pain, regret and remorse. And all the while, Redeye feeds on his torture.”

“That… that is horrible,” H’aanit gasped, wide-eyed.

Cyrus shook his head. “Some sort of nightmare.”

Susanna swung her gaze over to the huntress, sharply. “Did you touch him?”

“Pardon?”

“The Curse of the Redeye can find new victims, cross from one mind to another, if one touches one who has been afflicted. If you touched him in his paralyzed state…”

“I woulde be seeing it.” H’aanit narrowed her eyes. “I woulde be hearing the beast's voice in my head.”

“Are you?”

H’aanit looked pale. “I… I believen so.”

Susanna nodded slowly. “There is still time. And you are strong. All hope is not yet lost.”

“Linde…” H’aanit said sadly. “Linde tried to nuzzlen against Master’s hand. And she hath been scratching at her neck since we left. She hath been shedding much more fur than is her norm... Hath she been inflicted?”

“She may.” 

“This Redeye…” Cyrus pulled his notebook and a charcoal pencil from his cloak pocket. “Might it look something like this?” 

He opened to a blank page, set the notebook on the coffee table, and began to sketch a black, wispy figure with a flat face, blank round eyes, and a haunting grin.

H’aanit shook her head grimly. “I hath seen it.”

“What a terrifying spirit,” Susanna said. “But sir scholar, how have you…”

Cyrus sighed. “I've seen it, too. And heard it, I’m afraid. I keep trying to lock it away, but...” He looked at H’aanit, sadly.

“I hath given the curse to thee!” H’aanit shook her head. “But how…?”

“I checked for vital signs, when I encountered your Master Z’aanta. Including a pulse.” Cyrus shook his head. “Therion even told me not to…” He started suddenly at the thought of the thief. “Might we pass it on? Even if we are not totally petrified, might we still be contagious? Those whom we might come in contact with...”

Susanna shrugged her bony shoulders. “There will come a point, though I think it may be long before you reach it, as long as you are not near the creature itself. For that time that you must travel and prepare, there is hope.”

“A cure?” Cyrus asked brightly.

“The only cure is to killen the beast.” H’aanit’s voice was full of resolve.

“But there is a potion I can make, to delay the curse.” Susanna nodded to herself. “But it requires herb-of-grace. Are either of you familiar?”

H’aanit shook her head. 

Cyrus frowned. “It’s an extinct species, is it not?”

“Not extinct.” Susanna’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Just rare. It happens to grow nearby, deep in the Whitewood. Beware, though, as the path is dangerous, and guarded by beasts most foul. Bring me some of this herb, and I can brew a potion for you both. It won’t help Z’aanta, I’m afraid. He is too far gone.”

“We will retrieven this herb-of-grace, then.” H’aanit nodded to Cyrus. “Art thou with me?”

The scholar nodded, determined. “But of course.” 

\--- --- ---

Therion shivered in the appointed spot as they waited for the carriage, out of sight of the road. Primrose had to have been cold, but she didn’t show any sign of it. At a rumbling on the distant road, the dancer grabbed his shoulder. Therion followed her eyes. They watched the carriage trundle to a stop about two hundred paces in front of them, the horses’ breath white in the frigid air. Primrose squeezed his upper arm for luck before she strode out into the path.

The driver leered down at her from his perch. He was a tall, bald, unfriendly looking man, and he didn’t respond to Primrose’s coy smile.

“Who’re you?” The driver slid himself off his seat, thudding down in the snow before the dancer. 

Primrose let her cloak fall slightly open as she stepped forward, angling her chin to show her best side. “Hello. You must be Oren. Arianna has told me so much about you, but she failed to mention how _tall_ you were.”

Oren’s face was a mask. He grunted. “Who’re you?”

Prim’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m looking for work. My friend told me there was a certain establishment just outside of town that is looking for girls like me. She said she had put in a good word to get me an interview with the master.”

Oren barely looked at her. “No one’s told me about you. So I ain't taking you anywhere.”

“You know,” Primrose affected a sultry tone, shimmying in closer. “I’m a dancer. Men often used to say that after seeing my show, nothing would ever satisfy them. I could offer you a private dance.” She slid a slender hand over his broad chest, peeking just a bit of tongue from the corner of her mouth.

The driver took her hand, held it away from him, and dropped it. “Maybe try at the tavern.”

Prim bit her lip, but maintained her smile. “Perhaps I will. Thank you.” 

She swayed her hips as she walked away, only dropping to an irritated march when she was out of the driver's line of sight. She stomped over to Therion, who was trying to hide a snide smile at her failure. She glared at him.

“We need to make it on that carriage,” she said. “Unless you want to try to trail it there in the cold and the snow.”

“Not on your life,” Therion said. He looked back out at the carriage. “Let me try.”

Primrose arched an eyebrow. “You’re gonna seduce him?”

Therion made a face. “Just play along. Sorry in advance.” He grabbed the dancer’s arm, wrangling her over to the coachman. When he was within earshot, he swore loudly to get his attention, but directed his false ire at Prim. “Can’t let you outta my sight for a moment, now can I? Get on over there.”

He shoved Primrose forward, between himself and the driver, and affected the most irritated tone he could. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “Did this bitch try to trick you into doing her a favor?”

Oren appraised him, then Primrose. When he spoke, he seemed more open to conversation than he had before. “She may have. Who are you?”

Therion looked angrily at Primrose, who was trying to mask her confusion. “Trying to screw me out of my cut, huh? If the boss didn’t need that pretty face for his customers, I swear…” he lifted a hand in her direction, hoping she would catch on.

She did, dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry, Master.”

“Not yet you aren’t,” Therion spat. He turned back to Oren. “Are you the man I see about the carriage ride? “

The driver frowned. “I haven’t heard anything about anyone needing a ride.”

“Look, man. It’s my job to make sure this bitch makes it to where she needs to go. I need that money.”

Oren remained resolute. “No one’s told me.”

Therion rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Yeah, cause they didn’t know we were coming. She keeps running off, so I’m here to babysit. Boss hired me to watch her, and I’m almost done-- just got to get her one last leg of the journey. Help a guy out, huh?” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “I’m sure I can arrange some favors with the boss man. She’s one of his favorites.”

Oren dropped his voice to a whisper only Therion could hear. “When you say, ‘boss,’ do you mean Rufus or Simeon?”

Therion narrowed his eyes at him, affecting a smirk. “Which do you think, with something so important?” He paused, to give this an air of seriousness. “And I can make sure it’s worth your while now, if you don’t believe me.” Therion motioned to a fat coin purse peeking out from under his tunic.

Oren held out a hand, and Therion slipped the purse into it. The coachman nodded. “Alright. Climb aboard.”

Therion turned back to Primrose. “You heard the man. Get your ass in there.”

“Yes, Master,” the dancer said, scrambling up to the door. Therion hoisted himself up after her.

“We’re waiting on a load from the provisioner,” Oren called, “then we’ll be off.”

“Okay, but sooner’s better than later,” Therion called back. “Can’t wait to wash my hands of this whore.” He climbed inside, shutting the door behind him.

Primrose was looking at him from across the carriage, a thin smile on her lips. 

“You are very convincing,” she whispered. 

Therion smirked. “What is it that you think I do for a living? Lying convincingly is like, a third of it.”

It was only a short wait until the clerk from the provisioner’s came, wheelbarrow full of food and drink for delivery to the Obsidian Parlor. Once this was loaded on the back, Oren climbed up on the box, wheeled the horses around, and they started off down the snowy path.

\--- --- ---

Alaic met H’aanit and Cyrus at the door, Susanna instructing him to lead them to the entrance to the Whitewood. He nodded, and waved at them to follow him. When they passed the edge of town, H’aanit whistled for her feline companion. Linde bounded out from the trees quickly, as she had been watching over her mistress from a safe distance. 

When the leopard jumped out, Alaic was taken aback at first, but watching neither the huntress nor the scholar react in fear, he soon relaxed. Linde fell into easy step at their side. 

Cyrus started in on a botany lecture, as discussion of the herb-of-grace had brought back a myriad of random facts he could assemble into a passable narrative. Neither Alaic nor H’aanit listened, each wrapped in their own thoughts of the path ahead. Cyrus didn’t care. He had found he had come to dislike the silence more and more.

Alaic stopped them. “This is the path to the Whitewood,” he said. “Though take care. Humans do not often venture within, so the beasts have little fear of man. There are markings on the trees to follow to the growing place of the herb.”

“Thou dost speak,” H’aanit said. 

Alaic jerked his eyes away from H’aanit’s. “I only speak when I have something to say.”

The huntress nodded. “Will that more people in this world followeth the same principle.”

Cyrus shot her a sideways glance. “I feel as though that was directed at me, and I have to say, I take slight offense.”

H’aanit laughed. “If thine magic will help keepen the beasts at bay, I shalle overlooken thy shortcomings.”

“Very kind of you,” Cyrus said dryly. “Sir Alaic, thank you for your guidance thus far. I take it you will not be accompanying us any further?”

Alaic shook his head. “If ought happened to me, Madam Susanna would have no one. So I urge you. Take care. There are rumors of a dragon in these woods.”

“No beast shalle keepen me from helping my Master.” 

\--- --- ---

The carriage trundled along the path, wind whistling outside the carriage windows. They didn’t shut well, so the cold crept in from the bottom of the pane on both sides. Therion held his cloak tightly around him, burying his nose in his scarf. Primrose watched him from beneath the shadow of her hood. 

“That’s the one Cyrus found for you,” she said quietly. It took Therion a while to make meaning of her words, before his fingers came up to touch his scarf.

“Yeah.”

“It was a shawl.”

“What?”

“They don’t sell scarves like that in the desert, stupid,” Prim said. “It was a shawl. He saw the color and the fabric, and convinced the lady selling it to cut it in half lengthwise and restitch it into a scarf. It was a whole ordeal. But he was dead set on it. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Therion slid his fingertips over the material. “Is that supposed to make me not like it anymore or something?”

Primrose shook her head, cast her gaze out the window. “He frightens me sometimes.”

Therson laughed. “He’s Cyrus. He’s harmless.”

“He doesn’t have emotions,” Primrose said quickly. “Or when he does, he… he turns them off. In an instant, like snuffing out a candle. It’s unnerving.”

Therion was about to protest, until he remembered Boulderfal, right after Cordelia had thrown them out. How quickly his face had changed, like nothing had even happened. He had said some things about organizing his mind, but…

“You’ve seen it, too.”

Therion just stared. Odette had said some things, too. He hadn’t really wanted to listen.

“Just be careful. Because you care about him… he could use that against you. If he wanted to be, he could be very manipulative. I’ve seen it, in my line of work, in some men--”

“No.”

“I’m not saying he is, just that he has the potential--”

“No. No, you don’t even know him.”

“Do you?” Therion was silent. Primrose sought out his eyes. “Your heart can cloud your judgement. Make you see people how you want to see them, not how they really are. And they don’t reveal themselves until they hurt you, and leave you.”

 _And stab you and push you off a cliff._ Therion shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

Primrose laughed. “You want to know what kind of man he is? Tell him ‘no’. See what he does. That will tell you everything.”

Therion said nothing, but gave her a hard look.

\--- --- ---

H’aanit scanned the trees ahead, following the markings slashed into the tree trunks. Linde sniffed the air, ears perked, tail taut, shoulders low. Cyrus had been uncharacteristically quiet, following closely behind.

“In thine research,” H’aanit said over her shoulder, “hast thou found any true accounts of dragons?”

Cyrus chuckled to himself. “You don’t actually believe there’s an actual dragon in these woods, now do you?”

H’aanit shrugged. “I hadde scarce believen in monsters that turneth men to stone, or haunteth a person’s thoughts and dreams, either.”

“Your dreams?” Cyrus asked.

“Ah,” H’aanit said, “thine curse hath not progressed as far as mine own.”

They walked ahead in silence for a time.

“I have not read any verified accounts of dragons,” Cyrus said finally. “All is anecdotal, mostly second-hand. But there is one glimmer of hope in all of these tales.”

“What might that be?”

“Dragons are described typically as elemental in nature. I shall have an advantage.” Cyrus grinned. “And, I will have a skilled hunter and her fierce companion with me. I do not predict failure, even in the worst case scenario.”

“Good.”

They continued on a bit more, carefully following the marking on the trees. A few times, H’aanit paused, but only to verify her course. Birds and small rodents flitted around their path, but nothing larger than Linde. They soon came upon a clearing, where the setting sun angled through the treetops to shine on a field of white and yellow flowers.

“T’is the herb-of-grace,” H’aanit said, jogging forward. She opened a pouch she had brought along for the task.

Cyrus followed her, plucking up a plant, studying it against the orange light. “Curious,” he said. “It seems to have characteristics from several different known varieties… some kind of natural hybrid, perhaps?”

“Talkest while thou pickest.”

“Right.” Cyrus sank to his knees to help the huntress collect the herb. 

They had amassed a decent amount when a rustling from the trees caught Linde’s attention. She growled at the source of the noise, ears flat against her head. H’aanit was at the ready, drawing her bow. Cyrus rose slowly, dusting off his clothes, eyes fixed on the source of the clamor.

The blue-gray wingtips emerged first, slicing through the tops of the trees. Then large clawed feet sank into the snow covered earth. The beast’s head emerged, eyes ablaze with a brilliant anger, toothy jaw open as the creature roared out its displeasure at the intruders.

H’aanit reached behind her for an arrow. “I hath a new story for thine research, Professor.”

\--- --- ---

The carriage shuddered to a stop. “End of the road,” Oren grunted. 

Therion peeked out the window, looking up at the back of an impressive-looking manor, set deep within the snow-dusted trees. “We don’t even get dropped off at the front door?”

The carriage door opened behind him, and Oren stood before them, brandishing a short sword. “No. You don’t.”

“Hey, hey, whoa.” Therion held up his hands. “What’s the idea here? When the boss finds out--”

“The boss don’t know you’re coming,” Oren snapped. “You think I’m stupid. Girl, take his weapon. Throw it out the window behind you.” 

Primrose stared at him, silent.

“Now, bitch!” Oren yelled. “Or I run him through!”

Therion’s eyes pleaded silently with Primrose. She leaned forward, aware of Oren’s eyes on her and the tip of his sword only inches away. She unsheathed Therion’s dagger from his waist, and tossed it out the carriage window behind her.

“Good,” Oren said. “Now yours.”

“I don’t have--”

“I already told you, I’m not stupid! Do it!”

Primrose narrowed her eyes at him, pulled her father’s dagger from its sheath in the waist of her skirt, and threw it out with Therion’s. 

Oren grinned. “You two aren’t stupid either. Come on, we’re getting out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He moved aside so Therion could exit the carriage, keeping his hands raised. When he stepped out into the snow, he scanned the surroundings. The Obsidian Parlor was encircled by thick, snowy woods, and the sun was growing low on the horizon. He knew he didn’t want to be barrelling through strange dark woods at night, with little sense on how to get back town, a crazy murderous carriage driver in pursuit. Running was out of the question. 

Primrose stepped down off the carriage behind him. They locked eyes for a moment, and he knew she was as lost as he was. Oren shoved her forward, and she almost crashed into Therion.

“Go. The stable.” He motioned with his sword, and Therion trudged forward, the deep snow spilling over the tops of his boots. He had a feeling that wet feet was not going to be the only uncomfortable thing in his near future. Oren had grabbed a lantern from the outside of the carriage, which lit their way as he marched them to the stable. 

“Take your cloaks off,” he barked once they were inside. He let the door boom shut behind them. Therion and Primrose did as they were told. Primrose had just her dancer’s outfit on underneath, her skin already covered in goosebumps at the chill of the air. “Take that purple thing off, too, boy.”

Bristling, Therion pulled off his tunic. Oren crossed and kicked their outer clothing towards a pile of hay. “Try to run out there in the cold at this time, you’ll be frozen before morning without protection,” he warned.

“Look, can we just talk about this? I think you might have gotten the wrong idea,” Therion started.

Primrose laughed nervously. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, really.”

“Nope,” Oren said. “Sure, you’re a dancer,” he motioned to Primrose, “and maybe even a whore. But that’s not why you came here.” His eyes narrowed on Therion. “And I don’t trust you half as far as I could throw you.”

“Oren, darling,” Primrose tried, her voice saccharine.

“Nah. Don’t even try it. Let me tell you what’s going to happen.” He hung the lantern on a high hook on one of the ceiling beams. “First rule Master Rufus has is ‘don’t touch the girls’. So I don’t touch the girls. I can look, but I can’t touch.” He nodded at Primrose. “So you’re a dancer. You’re going to give me something to look at.”

Primrose spoke cautiously. “Of course. I can do that.”

Oren nodded. “But I can’t touch. And you can’t touch me. Those are the rules, or I lose my job. The girls can’t touch me.” He pointed his sword at Therion. “But you can.”

“Hold on,” Therion said, raising his hands higher. Oren wasn’t listening.

“You do that, and I don’t have to tell anyone you were here, boy. I just take you back to Stillsnow and no one knows nothing. Of course, we keep the girl. Master Rufus needs all the girls he can get right now.” Oren’s eyes traveled over both Primrose and Therion, in turn. “Deal?”

“I don’t--” Therion began.

“Deal,” Primrose said, bumping her shoulder into Therion’s. She gave Oren a fake, vapid smile. “Have a seat, handsome.”

“Prim!” Therion hissed. She ignored him.

Oren grabbed the collar of Therion’s shirt, yanking him forward. “Or, I just kill you now, and still send the girl to Rufus. That what you want, boy?”

“No,” Therion growled. Oren sat back onto a hay bale, pulling Therion down along with him. The thief fell to his knees between the driver’s legs, bracing himself with a hand on each of Oren’s thighs. He looked up at him, anger smouldering in his face. The driver grinned down at him, unbuckling his belt.

Therion glared over his shoulder, where Primrose was doing some graceful stretches, elongating her limbs. She mouthed some words at him, eyes pleading. _“Just play along.”_

“Don’t be looking at her, boy,” Oren said, grabbing a handful of his hair to redirect his face forward. “I get to look. You get this.” The coach driver had his half-hardened cock in hand, stroking it to attention.

He heard Primrose singing behind him, a wordless, sultry tune. She was providing her own music while she started her dance. Oren’s eyes focused on her, a smile creeping across his lips. His arousal grew and stiffened in his hand, inches from Therion’s face. The driver tugged on the thief's hair, pulling him towards it. Squeezing his eyes shut, and trying to picture himself elsewhere, he took it into his mouth.

He listened to Primrose’s voice behind him, complimented by the jingle of the bangles on her wrists and charms on her hips, and was struck by a realization. She had done this-- this exact thing, stranger’s cock in her mouth and all-- for years. She had dealt with this feeling of being used, objectified, dismissed, with man after man, night after night, year after year. And still she held her head high. Still she used her skills and charm to get what she wanted, never lost sight of her goal, enduring everything she had to along the way. Even now, she danced. She smiled. She sang.

Therion ignored the length filling his throat as he moved his lips over the shaft, opening his eyes to watch Oren. The driver’s gaze was fixed on Primrose behind him as she flaunted her body, his breathing heavy, the tip of his tongue lolling between his lips. His attention was held. As he worked with is mouth, Therion moved his eyes to Oren’s waist. The driver’s short sword leaned against his leg. Therion could see the hilt over the curve of his thigh. The plan clicked into place in an instant. 

Therion pushed forward, forcing the driver’s cock deep down his throat. His hands crept up over the man’s thighs with the same motion. Though his eyes watered, he watched Oren moan and shut his eyes in pleasure. Therion curled his fingers around the hilt of the sword, and before Oren could open his eyes, Therion pulled back both his mouth and the sword, sliding it around his body to hold it in the crook of his knees, mostly shielded from the driver’s gaze. As he did this, he swirled his tongue around the head of Oren’s cock, employing every trick he knew to distract the driver with pleasure. He watched his eyes the entire time, but he didn’t need to. The driver’s deep moan told him he had no idea of the sleight. The thief continued his attentions, lest Oren become suspicious.

He heard Primrose jingling closer as she twirled in her dance. Oren looked to her through hazy lids. Therion was aware of Primrose’s leg straddling him, as she brought it up over Oren’s lap. His hands went to her chest and hips, apparently forgetting his ‘no touching’ rule in his pleasure. Primrose dipped backwards, and Therion angled the sword carefully up towards her behind their backs. He felt her grip the handle and take the weight of the weapon at the same moment as he felt Oren’s cock pulse against his tongue.

One clean swipe, and it was done.

Primrose pulled back, grabbing the back of Therion’s shirt to yank him away from Oren’s convulsing body. A deep red slash leaked from the driver's throat, and he clutched at it feebly, for in the midst of his climax, there wasn’t much he could do to stop the blood from flowing. Primrose’s knuckles were white as they gripped the hilt. At some point, she had removed her top, and tiny splotches of the driver’s blood dotted her neck and chest. Her eyes were fixed on Oren until his convulsive movements stopped, and his body slumped, lifeless.

“Holy shit,” Therion said, stunned on the stable floor, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He wiped the trail of saliva from his chin. “What. The fuck.”

Primrose tossed the bloody sword at the body, and turned. “I need my dagger.”

“I was thinking you threaten the guy, not fucking slice him open!” Therion scrambled to his feet. 

Primrose was out in the snow, oblivious to her mostly bare body, searching for the dagger she had been forced to toss out the carriage window. She retrieved it, and Therion’s as well. When she returned, Therion was still standing, bewildered, running a hand through his hair and watching the driver’s blood seep into the straw.

Primrose held out his dagger to him, handle first. Her jaw was set, nothing but determination in her eyes. It sent a chill down Therion’s spine.

“Thank you,” she said. “Know that I would have done the same for you.”

Therion shook his head, taking the dagger from her. “We got to work on our communication, or something. I thought we were breaking into a place.”

“What did you think I was breaking in to do?” Primrose asked calmly. She gave him a hard final look, then snatched up her top, sliding it gracefully over her blood-flecked shoulders. 

Therion sheathed his dagger, and picked up his discarded clothing. “Well, I usually just take stuff, and leave everyone’s blood still inside them.” He looked back at Oren, and felt a spark of pity for the dumb fool. “I guess we’re all in, now.”

Primrose nodded. “We were from the start. I cannot let anything stand in my way.”


	24. From the Whitewood to the Obsidian Parlor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the previous chapter. I guess there's not _actual_ smutty smut in this one, but a few situations including a little Primrose/H'aanit tease.

The dragon crashed closer, wings beating against trees, clawed feet cracking snow drifts beneath the bulk of the enormous blue-scaled body. It let out a roar, and instead of fire, ice crystals issued from its jagged maw.

Cyrus began laughing, nearly doubling over.

H’aanit shot him an angry look. “Why art thou laughing?” 

Cyrus, still giddy, shook his head. “It's an _ice_ dragon,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “And here I expected a challenge.”

The beast roared, sending a hailstorm of its breath raining down at them. H’aanit and Linde leapt away, the leopard bounding lightly on her paws, H’aanit somersaulting back onto her feet into a sprint. Cyrus dove aside, somewhat less gracefully, ending up face-first in the snow, but clear of the ice.

“On thy feet!” H’aanit ordered, firing arrow after arrow at the dragon’s head, hoping to hit an eye. She got a nostril, and the beast screamed its anger. It lunged down at her as Linde raked her claws fruitlessly against its scaly hide. The dragon’s jaws snapped down towards the huntress, who backpedaled and loosed arrows as the beast crashed after her in pursuit. Trees cracked under its bulk as it left the herb-of-grace behind, chasing the huntress through the woods.

“Right!” Cyrus scrambled up, only slipping slightly on the ice beneath him, and launched a fireball at the dragon. It stopped, uninjured, and turned to him. It bared a mouth full of sharp yellow fangs.

“If that be all, then we are doomed,” H’aanit muttered.

“Of course not.” Cyrus brushed snow from the front of his vest. “Just needed the fellow to look at me, to get a clean shot.” The scholar squared up his shoulders, positioning his hands. He grinned at the dragon, as if as a dare. The beast swooped forward.

" _IGNIS ARDERE!_ " 

The air erupted. Snow from the trees and the ground around the beast melted and evaporated within seconds, and the dragon howled as the hot steam burned its scales. The flames themselves seared against its reptilian skin, and the creature fell forward in pain. H’aanit loosed a few arrows at some choice weak points-- beneath its chin and where its legs and wings joined its body. Linde pounced, landing a swipe across its face with her deft claws. H’aanit readied her axe, preparing for a killing blow.

The dragon beat its wings, summoning a cold wind, and shooing away the huntress and her feline companion. Cyrus hurled some smaller fireballs towards it, not wanting to get his allies caught in the larger conflagration, but the dragon used its wings as a shield. Ice shards flew through the air with every movement of the dark, leathery masses, forcing its opponents to shield their eyes and faces, lest they feel a thousand tiny stabs of sharpened ice. The cutting ice storm continued as the creature lifted from the ground, crying out painfully. 

“Taken cover!” H’aanit shouted, ducking behind a thick tree. “It meaneth to dive at us!”

Cyrus scurried behind a pair of closely-grown trunks, watching the beast rise higher and higher into the sky, moving slowly and laboriously due to injury. “I don’t believe that it its intention,” he called out.

H’aanit followed it at the end of a notched arrow. The dragon didn’t seem to be looking at them. Instead, it was flying off, gaining speed.

“It retreath,” she said, lowering her bow. Then she took a moment to get her bearings, to realize what direction the creature was headed.

“It headeth for the town!” H’aanit had her bow slung over he shoulder in a moment, and was running after the dragon, picking a way through the sparse forest. Linde was on her heels.

Cyrus attempted to give chase, but the melted snow had made the ground beneath him slick and muddy. He slipped forward, catching himself on all fours. His hands sunk in to the wrists.

_FoOl._

Cyrus looked up at H’aanit, who was disappearing into the trees. She hadn’t said it. The flash of the grinning, hollow-eyed face passed through his mind, and he clambered to his feet and attempted to outrun it. 

“We must not letten it reach the town!” H’aanit called over her shoulder, mad urgency in her voice. She picked up her step, and Cyrus quickly saw she was much faster than he was. The gap between them widened.

_WeAk._

\--- --- ---

Therion led the way as he and Primrose crept through the back entrance to the Obsidian Palace. He kept his ears open, but he didn’t hear a lot of activity. Most of the girls must be readying themselves to receive tonight’s guests. They turned down a corridor with a plush purple carpet and soft candles set into the wall sconces.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Therion whispered.

“The Master’s chambers,” Primrose said. “Probably that door down there.” She pointed to the largest, gaudiest door in the hall. “But we want a sneakier way. There’s probably a back hallway from the girls’ rooms. There always is.”

“Lead on,” Therion said. “It’s quiet. I think everyone’s up front.”

Primrose nodded, and stepped in front of him. She was light on her feet. They were silent as they moved down the corridor. 

A door opened in front of them, and Therion ducked behind a protruding pillar, flattening himself against the wall. Primrose just straightened up, hand brushing against the dagger hidden beneath her skirt. A girl stepped out, adorned with the same cheap and showy decorations as Arianna. Primrose smiled at her.

“Who’re you?” the girl asked.

“I’m Primrose,” the dancer said sweetly. “I’m new? I’m supposed to have an interview with Master Rufus, and they told me to go in the back way to meet him. But I can’t for the life of me figure out where that’s supposed to be.”

“Oh. I can take you.”

“No, no, I’m sure you have places to be. Just point the way, I’ll get myself there.”

“Back through that door on the right,” the girl motioned. “But I think he’s got a meeting right now with one of his bosses. Might want to wait until he’s ready. That guy can put him in a mood.”

“Thank you so much. I was told the girls here were nice.” Primrose flashed a smile.

“We gotta be, if we don’t want to get sent up north. Be careful.”

“I will.”

The girl jingled down the hall, not noticing Therion pressed back in the shadows. The thief waited until she had turned the corner before emerging.

“Is ‘getting sent up north’ some kind of code?” Therion asked.

“No idea.” Primrose motioned for him to follow, and they made their way quickly down to the door the girl had pointed out. The room behind it was dark, but light issued from beneath another door at the far end. Primrose raised a finger to her lips, and crouched down with an ear to the door. Therion followed suit.

There were two voices behind the door, one gruff and irritated, the other smoothly arrogant. Therion couldn’t help but feel he had heard the second one before, somewhere, but he couldn’t place it.

The gruff one was speaking, complaining. “We keep appeasing this mad man,” he said. “I don’t understand why you put so much trust in a self-described thief.” Primrose arched an eyebrow at Therion, but he shook his head, uncertain.

The smooth voice spoke. “He has proven his loyalty. He can follow orders and he can keep his men in line.”

Gruff laughter. “Because he’s batshit crazy, and they're all scared of him. Rightly so.”

The smooth voice was dismissive. “I care not for his management, only his results. Which have been satisfactory.”

There was a long silence, as if the two men were staring each other down. Then the smooth voice spoke again. “Do you wish them to go back to pillaging the countryside, stealing up whoever--or whatever-- they think will please their appetites? We cannot have that kind of chaos. Nobleman’s daughters, Sisters of the Flame, farm girls, beggars… I believe even some sheep went missing. They have no discretion. Besides, if they think they’re getting something valuable from us, then they are more likely to go the extra mile to ensure our success.”

There was a rough grunt. “At least tell them they need to make the girls last longer. I can’t be sending them all the time, I’ll run out. All the extra numbers from Helganish’s operation are gone, most to that lot. And it’s not like they come back.”

“One more. She doesn’t even have to be pretty, she just needs to be warm.”

A loud sigh. “Fine. I have this older girl. Arianna. She’s off tonight, but I’ll send her in the morning.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. We must keep the rank and file satisfied if we are to expand our operations.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t say I never did you any favors.”

There were footsteps within the room, growing distant. The smooth-voiced man must be moving towards the front door.

“I know that voice,” Primrose whispered. “I can’t remember where.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” Therion frowned. “Now what?”

Primrose stood. “I go in and introduce myself.”

“Do I go?”

Prim narrowed her eyes at him. “You know what I’m going to do in there, right?” Therion was quiet. Primrose shook her head. “And you freaked out about the carriage driver. You stay out here, and if things get messy, I’ll yell for help, and you can come storming in to save yourself a damsel in distress and call yourself a hero. Dream come true.”

“I think you have severely misjudged my ambitions in life.”

Primrose grinned. “Maybe go around to the front door and act like you work for him and don’t let anyone else in until I’m done.”

“I can do that.” Therion thought back at the hallways to where they saw the master’s front door. “Give me time to get there. Count to a hundred before you go in.” He stood, ready to hasten down the hallway.

Prim grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Wait.”

He turned to her, a little frightened by the serious resolve on her face. 

“If I need you, though, and I yell for you, will you come help?”

“Yeah,” Therion said quickly.

She tightened her grip. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” Therion said more sternly, pulling his arm away. “You think I’m just going to let you get killed if there’s something I can do about it? Come on. I’m a thief, not an asshole.”

Primrose gave him a look. 

“Okay, yeah, I’m an asshole, too.” Therion smirked. “But not a monster.”

The dancer nodded. “Thank you.”

Therion set his jaw. “Count to a hundred.” Then he was off. 

Primrose leaned against the door. _One dead crow. Two dead crows. Three dead crows. Four…_

\--- --- ---

“Comen!” H’aanit looked back, to see the scholar lagging behind. She slowed, conflicted, before doubling back towards him.

“I… apologize…!” Cyrus yelled between breaths as she neared. “Athletics...are not…”

H’aanit skidded to a stop in front of him, and bent to one knee. “On my back,” she said. “Quickly. We art north of town. It hast not far to fly.”

Cyrus didn’t have time to argue. He swiped his muddied hands on the snow quickly to clean them, then placed them on her shoulders. “I don’t mean anything untoward--”

“Husheth!” H’aanit grabbed his legs from under his knees, hoisted his weight onto her back, and took off running with Cyrus wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She adjusted to the added weight quickly. Linde ran before them, mapping out the path of least resistance. They were soon gaining ground on the dragon.

“Can thou reacheth it from here?” H’aanit huffed.

“I can try.” Cyrus called out his spell, flinging a fireball up at the dragon, singing its tail. It roared. “Ha ha!” 

“Keepen with thy magic, scholar!” H’aanit shouted as she ran. “We musten bring down the beast!”

\--- --- ---

_Ninety-nine dead crows…_ Primrose swallowed hard, straightening her shoulders. “One hundred,” she whispered. She knocked on the door in front of her.

Angry grumbling came from behind it, and footsteps approached. Rufus flung the door open. He was a big man, with unruly blond hair that tangled around his shoulders, and a sneer on his thick lips. “You should be in the front parlor, you miserable--”

Primrose smiled up at him, meekly.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Primrose,” she said. “Do you recognize me?”

Rufus studied her. “You must be one of the new ones. Did no one tell you how things work around here?”

“I thought I might come meet you myself, Master,” Primrose said, giving him a graceful little curtsey. “Because I thought you might not know… I am a dancer.”

“Is that so?” Rufus looked her over. Primrose made sure her leg was bent just so, to peek the right amount of skin out of the slit in her skirt. “Are you any good?”

Primrose settled a smile on her lips. “That’s what I’ve come to show you, Master.”

Rufus chuckled to himself. “You should know I’m not one to play favorites, if that’s what you’re after. But if you really wanna show me what you’ve got…” He stepped aside and waved a hand to usher her into his room. Prim made sure to give him a smile and brush her fingers against his chest as she sauntered by. Rufus closed the door behind her, and sat himself down on a sofa in the center of the room. He leaned back into the deep purple cushions.

“I don’t have any music for you,” he said, frowning at the starting pose Primrose had adopted. 

She winked at him. “You don’t want to see that kind of dancing anyway, do you?”

\--- --- ---

Therion squared his shoulders outside the door, eyeing the corridor suspiciously. He framed a cover story in his head-- his employer was within, petitioning the boss. Hopefully that would do.

A voice echoed down the hallway, speaking in soft tones. The voice-- the same smooth one he had heard before, talking to Rufus-- that he recognized but could not name. He could sneak down that hall, and peer around that corner…

No. He straightened. He had made a promise to Primrose. The voice continued. Therion had never been good at denying his curiosity. He glanced back at the door. She’d be fine. He crept quietly towards the source of the sound, hugging the wall. The voice grew more distinct, but Therion wasn’t interested in what he was saying. He was interested in the face.

Reaching the corner, Therion ducked low to the ground, wondering if he dared to look. He wished he had a mirror. He patted down the hidden pockets lining his tunic, fingers settling around a silver spoon. He pulled it out, smiling to himself. It was from some inn or tavern, who even knew where, and although it hadn’t seemed particularly valuable, he had liked the little leaf etching on the handle. He polished it against his scarf until it shone, then angled it to cast an upside-down reflection of the hallway around the corner. Two figures stood there, sideways to him, facing each other. One was a girl, perhaps the girl from earlier, and the other a male figure in a long, dark coat. They seemed engaged in serious conversation with each other, the man leaning in suggestively. Therion clutched the spoon back to his chest, and nodded. He dared.

He peeked around the corner to get a clear look at the man’s face in profile. He had long, light hair, pulled back into a braid, and smooth, handsome features. Therion still didn’t recognize him. Then the man smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. Therion felt hollow. The same man had been outside the Black Market. The same man had--

He turned, glancing down the hall in Therion’s direction. The thief snapped back behind the corner as quickly as he could, sucking in his breath, pulse racing. He heard the man mutter “excuse me,” to the girl, and footsteps sounded down the hall, headed in Therion’s direction. The thief was on his feet, retreating back as quickly as he dared, panic in his thoughts. He scanned the hallway. There was nowhere to hide.

\--- --- ---

The smile on Rufus’ face grew as Primrose spun slowly, gyrating her hips as she swayed towards him. Her eyes were locked into his. She traced a finger over her parted lips, down her neck, across her breast. Her other hand curved over her hip as she dropped low, then came up underneath her skirt as she stood, a silent provocative question on her face. Rufus settled into his smile, spreading his knees apart just a bit more as the dancer approached.

Prim came up between his legs, running a hand over each of his knees before she looped a leg over one, dipping back. When she leaned forward, her hands slid up her stomach, catching the bottom hem of her top, peeling the fabric over her head. Her other hand came up to cover her breasts, teasingly. She flung the top off, whipping her hair around her bare shoulders, her eyes and smile centering on Rufus. His gaze was stuck to her, and he reached out a hand to move her arm, to see and feel what she hid beneath. She gently caught his hand before he could, bringing it up to her face, brushing it against her cheek. This exposed his left arm from beneath his cloak, and the accursed tattoo glared up at her-- a dark, ugly stain.

“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked, giving a sinful tinge to her voice.

“We got so many girls in from Helagnish,” Rufus said. “You one of them? Have I… had the pleasure before?”

Primrose channeled everything into maintaining her fake smile. “You have not. You’d remember that.” She brought his hand down over her right breast. 

Rufus grinned and squeezed. “Would I, now?”

“You might have seen me dance at Helganish’s.” She leaned forward, tracing a hand down his chest, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt as she spoke. “But you’ve known me for longer than that.” 

“Have I?” He wasn’t really listening. He was watching the dancer’s hand creep down towards his thigh. 

Primrose slid in close, tucked two fingers under his chin to turn his head to face her. “Do try to remember. was much younger, but I have never forgotten you.” She moved her hand across to the bulge at the front of his pants, pressing around the hardness beneath the fabric. “Think hard.” He groaned, but kept his eyes on hers. He unbuckled his belt, and her hand slid within.

“You said your name was…?” He breathed hard as she moved her hand along the length of his erection.

“Primrose,” she crooned. “You worked for my father.”

His eyes widened. “Azelhart…”

She waited for the full realization to click into his face before she jammed her hand down, grabbing hold of his balls and twisting. He screamed. In the same instant, she pulled her dagger from her skirt, raising it against his neck. 

“You move and you bleed, you foul son of a bitch!” Primrose hissed, her grip as strong on the handle of the dagger as it was on the man’s genitals. 

His eyes were wide in terror as he gasped for breath through the pain, his face flushing red. 

“Before I kill you,” she said, her heart racing, “I want to know why. Why you betrayed a man who did nothing but good for those who served him!”

“Let...go…” Rufus croaked. “And… I will tell you… everything.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she loosened her grip. She kept the blade on his neck. “Caw, crow.”

Rufus struggled to recompose himself. “You were a child. You think you understood everything your father did?”

“I know he was a good man,” Prim sneered. “I know how people who knew him used to speak of him. I know how they speak of him today. And I know you’re one of the ones who conspired to take him away from us. I have waited a long time for this day.”

“You have, have you?” Rufus said, grunting out a laugh. “You think killing me is going to bring him back?”

“It will bring back justice to this world,” Primrose spat. “For that, it was worth the wait.”

Rufus gave a weak chuckle. “I’m afraid today’s just not going to be your day.” With a mighty grunt, Rufus pushed forward with one hand, and hurled a balled fist at the side of her jaw. Primrose jerked the knife upwards, but the crow was faster than he looked, and her blade only bit into the side of his cheek. The dancer crashed to the floor, head spinning from the punch, while Rufus unsheathed his sword. He planted a boot in the center of her chest, pinning her to the floor, blade pointed at her face. He leaned weight onto her, and her hands scrabbled at his ankle as she gasped out shallow breaths. She didn’t have enough air to scream.

“Pray now, girl, for you will soon share his fate.”

“Pray,” Primrose scoffed, glaring up at him. “The only god I serve is my vengeance.”

“As arrogant as your old man,” Rufus laughed.

\--- --- ---

Therion sucked in his breath, and with one hand on his dagger, whirled around to face the man pursuing him. The man stopped, recognition washing over his features.

“Ah,” he said, in that silk voice, “if it isn’t the little ragamuffin from Wellspring. Hope the mask served you well.” He grinned, and the sight chilled Therion. “You wouldn’t happen to be here searching for more favors, now would you?”

Therion tightened his grip on his knife. “None of your business,” he growled.

“But you see, this…” he spread his arms wide, “ _is_ my business.” He laughed. “Last I saw you, you were in the company of a particular dancer I admire. A dancer my men failed to later bring back here. Pray tell me, is she still with you? Is she here?” His eyes strayed to the door behind Therion. “Might she be in there?”

Therion pulled his dagger. “Back off.”

The man laughed. “My boy, you have no idea with whom you are dealing.” He laughed again, until his eyes were drawn abruptly to the ceiling. His laughter stopped. Therion followed his gaze. “Curious magicks,” he muttered. Then he looked back to Therion. “Do take care of that dancer for me, will you, my boy?” He grinned, and then stole off down the hall, leaving a puzzled Therion to stare at the ceiling. The beams began to shake.

\--- --- ---

With Primrose’s eyes fixed on the sword at her throat, she hardly heard the rumbling overhead. Rufus glanced around, to see the wall hangings and curtains quivering. There was a sudden crash, and part of the room caved in suddenly, giving way beneath a large, scaly form. A dark blue clawed foot raked out in desperation, knocking Rufus aside. Primrose whirled away, dashing to the opposite side of the room. The crow was pinned beneath the mass of rubble and the hulk of the creature as it writhed and roared in agony, arrows peppering its underbelly, dark burns marring its scales. 

Primrose snatched up her dagger and charged at Rufus, who clawed helplessly at the creature’s back limb. Both of his upper arms were pinned beneath the weight. He stared up at her as he noticed her dagger. She smiled, the same saccharine smile she had given him when he found her at the door to his chamber.

“Foul scavenger,” Primrose said. “My father will be avenged.” She carved a red line across his throat with her blade. He could only stare up at her as he bled. 

The life faded from his eyes. 

She exhaled. 

_One._

A feral war cry erupted from above. H’aanit ran across splintered beams and roof tiles, axe in hand, aiming for the lolling head of the dying dragon. Primrose watched as she leapt, cat-like, burying her axe in its flesh. The beast gave one last pitiful roar, and the body went slack. H’aanit stood atop the body, panting, radiant in the cold moonlight. She turned slowly, watching Linde spring up gracefully next to her. The huntress’ face was calmly confident, unfathomably strong.

Primrose let her dagger fall from her hands, and forgot how to breathe.

“I do believe we’ve felled it!” Cyrus’ voice, exuberant, called out from somewhere near the dragon’s tail. Primrose turned to see the scholar clambering over a busted section of the wall, dropping down into what used to be Rufus’ chamber. He spotted the dancer, and smiled as if meeting her for tea. “Ah, Primrose! Glad to see you, and especially thrilled that you haven’t been crushed by a large flying reptile.” He unhooked his cloak and handed it to her, staunchly not moving his gaze below her neck. She was confused at first, until the chill reminded her of her toplessness. She took the cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders while Cyrus studied Rufus’ body.

“This man was not quite as fortunate.” Cyrus frowned, eyeing the knife wound.

“I did that,” Primrose said, a hint of pride in her voice. “He’s one of the crows.”

“Ah.” Cyrus looked from the dead Rufus, to the dead dragon, to the dead-eyed dancer. “Where’s Therion?”

“Is that a fucking dragon?!” The thief's voice rang out in the heavy night air. “Primrose! Primrose, do you see this Godsdamned thing?!”” 

“Oh, good.” Cyrus moved towards the voice coming from the opposite side of the dragon’s bulky corpse.

Therion stumbled through the remains of the doorway, staring up at the beast’s remains, spying the huntress. “Holy shit! H’aanit? Did you kill a dragon?”

The huntress slid off the beast towards the thief. “One slayeth a dragon. Not killeth.”

“What the hell,” Therion stared at the thing, only briefly registering the figure climbing over the neck. “Cyrus? Cyrus, it’s a fucking dragon! Do you see this?”

Primrose bent to pick up her dagger from the ground, and begin the search for her top, trying not to laugh as Therion continued to audibly freak out, and Cyrus try to explain things in the most matter-of-fact lecture voice he could. When she had reassembled herself, she joined the rest. H’aanit saw her first. 

Prim smiled at her. “You’re a Dragonslayer.”

“Not just I.” She nodded to Cyrus. “Magic is a powerful ally.”

Primrose laughed. “Don’t say that too loud. You don’t want to feed his ego.”

H’aanit’s rare smile crept onto her face. “And thine hunt?”

Primrose nodded. “Successful.” 

“Good.” H’aanit clapped a hand on the dancer’s shoulder. “If any creature taken a life without cause, the balance musten be restored. T’is the same for beasts and men. That is thine quest.”

Primrose placed her own hand over the huntress’, realizing for the first time that her hands were shaking. H’aanit noticed, too, and settled her arm around the dancer to steady her.

A gaggle of girls were poking their heads through the broken hallway, peering at the group and the dead dragon, gasping and whispering to themselves. Some of their male clients, many drunk, hollered about the interruption to their evening and demanded to see Rufus. A few men were dressed in Obsidian black, and they lurked around the edges as well-- but without their Master, took no action. The man in black who had accosted Therion was nowhere to be seen.

A thunder of hooves poured in from the distance, and the henchmen quickly made themselves scarce. The girls clung to each other, and the clients hid themselves back into the recesses of the Parlor as it was clear that the horses belonged to the city watch, in pursuit of the dragon. 

The girls swarmed the approaching officers, but Alaic, Susanna’s bodyguard, rode through the middle of them. He hopped off his horse, jogging over to the group. He grinned and nodded to H’aanit, before sweeping into a deep bow. A slight smile grazed the huntress’ lips.

“Madam Susanna invites you to stay at her house this evening,” Alaic said, rising. “It will keep you from inquisitive eyes.”

A decorated man from the watch edged his horse closer to the group, but with a stony stare from the bodyguard, he decided to tend to the aimless women instead.

“There are some horses and a carriage at the stable,” Primrose said nervously.

Therion eyed the watchmen. “Yeah, I’d rather be elsewhere.”

They made their way around to where the horses were still hitched to the carriage, in the rear of the manor. Muttering angrily under her breath, H’aanit marched over to untie them.

“How do you propose we move the carriage without the horses?” Cyrus asked, frowning.

H’aanit stroked the mare’s neck. “We do not.” She hoisted herself up expertly onto the horse’s back, despite the lack of a saddle. “We asken nicely.” She reached down to help Primrose onto the horse as well. The dancer jumped, and H’aanit guided her to settle gracefully behind her, sitting with her legs dangling over the side.

Therion stared at the second horse, wondering how he could get himself up there without looking like an utter fool. He had stolen plenty of horses in his time, but there was usually a saddle involved. He placed a hand on the animal’s flank, contemplating. The horse didn’t even react. As he considered, Cyrus walked up beside him, and dropped to one knee in the snow. He braced his hands in a foothold. 

“I’m not that short.” Therion flushed, but was thankful. He let Cyrus boost him up onto the horse’s back, then bracing his legs around its neck, twisted to help the scholar up behind him. Cyrus circled his hands around the thief's waist, his chin at Therion’s shoulder.

“Have I ever told you that horses make me irrationally nervous?” Cyrus whispered.

“Really?” Theion smirked, and dug his heels into the animal’s ribs. It started off with a jolt, and Cyrus hugged Therion close. 

\--- --- ---

When the group returned to Susanna’s house, Alaic trailing behind them, Linde keeping up in stride, they found that the wind had covered all of them with a thin layer of frost. They hurried inside, Susanna cackling to herself as they warmed themselves by her fireplace. 

“I’m sure you’ve got yourself a tale to tell now, young missy.” The fortune teller smiled at H’aanit, collecting the satchel of herbs from her. “But you all might need a bit of warming up, first. Come, come.”

Susanna lead them out a back door, down a short path to a fenced-in cavern mouth, hidden from the village at large. Steam radiated from within. “This here’s a private hot spring. I let the elders and the hardworking folk come back to soak their bones. I reckon it's you lot that need it most right now.” The fortune teller grinned. “I haven’t had Alaic light the lanterns, but that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“Not a bit.” Cyrus smiled.

Therion didn’t wait. He was already within the cavern, searching out the source of the warmth. He was unlacing his boots when the rest of the group joined him with a trio of burning lanterns.

Steam rolled off the springs. There were three small pools of turquoise water, separated by a modest screen. 

Therion shook his head in disbelief. “This is the only good thing I’ve seen in the entire Frostlands,” he said, stripping off his tunic and undershirt in one motion.

“Therion,” Primrose chastised. He turned, confused, hands on his belt. H’aanit had turned her head to the side, shielding her eyes, reddening.

“You go back there.” Primrose motioned to the pool behind the screen.

Therion frowned. “This one’s the biggest, and I got here first.”

Cyrus walked over, guiding him by the shoulder. “Pardon us, ladies.”

Therion grumbled, but let himself be led away. He didn’t let it stop him from stepping out of the rest of his clothes, sinking himself into the warm, comforting water. He sighed, leaning back against the smooth edge of the pool. 

“I need this,” he sighed. “You have no idea.” 

He opened his eyes to watch Cyrus tentatively dip a bare toe in the water, still mostly dressed. 

“Don’t be a wimp,” Therion teased. 

Cyrus looked up at him, slyly. “You just want to watch me disrobe.”

Therion sank down to hide his smile under the surface of the water. Cyrus met his eyes with that intense look as he unclasped his cloak, letting it slide off his shoulders. He didn’t look away as he unbuttoned his vest, setting it aside.

“I’m afraid I am still a poor dancer,” Cyrus said, pulling his shirt up over his head. Therion only watched, eyes mischievous, as the scholar stepped out of the last of his clothes, attempting a sway of his hips that almost toppled him over. 

Therion laughed, and Cyrus joined in, wading into the water. Cyrus settled up next to him, spreading his arms over the edge of the pool, while Therion sank in up to his chin. They sighed in unison. 

The scholar’s hand slid down around the thief’s shoulder, and Therion leaned in towards him, angling up for a tired kiss. Cyrus’ arms encircled him, pulling him close, fingers tracing their way down Therion’s chest beneath the water.

_”You want to know what kind of man he is?”_

Therion pulled his lips away, bracing his hands on the scholar’s chest. Primrose’s words echoed in his mind.

Cyrus studied him. “Everything alright?”

_”Tell him ‘no’. See what he does.”_

Therion shook his head. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He twisted around, leaning back against Cyrus’ chest, one hand on his thigh. 

Cyrus buried a kiss in his hair, wrapping his arms back around him, hands searching downwards once more. Therion could feel his body begin to react, but his mind was too jumbled. _Freaking Primrose. She always has to say just the right thing._

Therion took Cyrus’ hand, guiding it away from him, letting it drop. He wrapped his arms around his own chest. He stared straight ahead, dreading the question he knew was coming.

Cyrus hesitated, unmoving. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and reserved. “Did I do something improper?”

Therion shook his head, and scooted away so their bodies were no longer touching. “I just don’t want to.” That was only half true. His body wanted it, at least.

“Oh.” Cyrus was still for a time. “But I haven't offended you, or irritated you in any way?”

“You will if you keep asking if you did.”

“Alright.” Cyrus sank down into the water, tipping his head back to stare at the dark cavern ceiling.

Therion waited. But there was only quiet, the muffled voices of the girls on the other side of the screen. _Odette had said..._ He hugged his knees to his chest. 

Cyrus focused on his breathing, deep and rhythmic-- anything to fill the silence. He was not successful.

_IDioT. yOu’Ve RUinEd iT aGaiN._

Cyrus ran his hands up over his face, the water almost too hot to be comfortable against his cheeks and eyelids.

_JuSt LiKe EvErYoNe BeFoRe HiM. HoPeLeSs._

\--- --- ---

On the other side of the screen, Primrose had re-pinned her hair on top of her head, and slipped out of her clothes with delicate grace, putting some attitude into her movements. However, when she looked back over her shoulder to catch H’aanit’s eye, she was disappointed to see the huntress seated, focusing on unlacing her boots. Primrose slowed, allowing her body to remain on full display, but H’aanit didn’t look up. 

“Thou art getting in?” she asked. “I doth not want to look and offend.”

Primrose frowned. “You know what I used to do for work, right?”

H’aanit motioned with her hand to the pool, still not looking up until she heard Primrose wade through the water. After she had unstrapped her weapons, she caught the dancer’s eye, asking an unvoiced question.

Primrose laughed lightly, shaking her head and placing a hand over her eyes. “You are surprisingly modest.”

“I supposen it is the custom of my home,” H’aanit said, quickly undressing and sliding into the water. “Thank thee. Thou might looken.”

Primrose opened her eyes. H’aanit was submerged up over her chest, but held her braid above the water, frowning.

“Let me tie up your hair,” Primrose offered. H’aanit nodded, turning around. The dancer took the long red braid, curling it on top of the huntress’ head, looping it under itself to secure it into a loose bun, pulling a pin from her own hair to secure it. As she did, she couldn’t help but notice the graceful curve of H’aanit’s bare neck, the powerful muscles filling out her shoulders and back, the little space between her shoulder blades that just begged for Primrose to press a kiss against. She settled for a caress of the huntress’ shoulder instead.

H’aanit turned, looking strikingly feminine with her hair up. The heat was in her cheeks, only partly due to the warmth of the water. Primrose wanted to lose herself in that rare smile all night. She took the huntress’ hand, and raised it slowly to her lips, leaving a kiss on her fingertips. H'aanit only watched.

“Is this okay?” Primrose asked.

H'aanit nodded, and brought her hand up along the dancer's cheek, hesitant to draw any closer. 

“I… I knowen not…what I shoulde doen,” the huntress said.

“I just want to make you smile,” Primrose said. She leaned in, curling her hand around H'aanit's bare shoulders, and their lips met in a kiss.


	25. Northreach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives in Northreach, to investigate the shady happenings therein.

Every step weighed Therion down further.

Not because of the cold, though it bit at his nose and toes. Not because of the ill-defined, mostly uphill path through the icy wilderness. 

Not even because ever since the hot springs in Stillsnow, Cyrus had been distant. Quiet. There were times when it was silent, where Cyrus would suddenly shake his head, or rub his eyes, or look off in the distance as if hearing someone shout his name. Therion didn’t think the girls noticed. Maybe it was because of their presence that the tone had changed so dramatically from the journey up from Stonegard. 

No, the thing that weighed on him the most was knowing his destination, and the confrontation that awaited him there. He would have died during the last encounter with Darius, if not for Cyrus and especially Primrose. Maybe it was a good thing she was there. And the presence of a woodland warrior princess commanding a man-eating leopard was a nice comfort. 

He had been thinking about his inevitable confrontation since they had left the fortune teller’s. That night, Therion had left the hot springs before his fingers had a chance to prune. He hadn’t responded to Cyrus asking him where he was going. When he dressed and walked around past the girls, there was a sudden splashing and a squeak of surprise. Therion just held his hand up to shield his eyes as he passed, ignoring them. The old woman had prepared some sleeping arrangements for them, volunteering Alaic’s bed, her sofa, an armchair, and a pile of rugs and blankets in front of the hearth that Linde had already curled up on. Therion said little before wrapping his scarf over his head and claiming the couch.

He awoke later in the night, when the fire had died low and the candles had been extinguished, to the low tones of Cyrus’ voice. He tried his best to listen without letting him know he was awake.

“I’m headed to Northreach with Therion,” Cyrus said. “He has a difficult task to accomplish there, and I’m not going to allow him to take unnecessary risks.”

“T’is good of you,” H’aanit said. “But thou needest to vanquish this beast just as much as I, now. I hath seen the power of thy magic. I needen thee as mine ally, or…”

“You doubt your success.” There was a long pause. “ _He_ tells you that you will not succeed.” Another long silence. “You slew that dragon.”

“ _We_ ,” H’aanit insisted. “I neede strength. I cannot fighte it on mine own. I coulde not have felled that dragon on mine own.”

Cyrus sighed. “I am going to Northreach with Therion first. Then… then we can talk about this beast.”

Therion hadn’t heard anything beyond that, as sleep reclaimed him. In the morning, he only had the lingering dream of facing a massive, scaled beast with two heads-- one that spoke lies to him with Cyrus’ voice, and the other that laughed eerily like Darius. That laughter, so perfectly written into his memory that his dreams could play it back flawlessly, kept him distracted throughout whatever conversation happened that morning that resulted in all four of them trudging down the long icy road to Northreach.

As they walked, Cyrus mumbled something under his breath. 

Therion looked over at him, but Cyrus just gave him a tired smile. “Something wrong?”

“I thought you said something.”

“Not I.”

They walked a little bit more, before Cyrus spoke, louder this time: “Simply preposterous. There’s absolutely no way.”

Therion looked back at him, and stopped walking. Cyrus stopped alongside him.

“I spoke that aloud, didn’t I?” He shook his head, running a hand over his brow.

Therion opened his mouth, but couldn’t form any words.

“Thou hath not taken the potion,” H’aanit scolded.

“I’m fine,” Cyrus insisted.

“You’re obviously not.” Primrose crossed her arms over her chest. Cyrus gave her a tired look.

“I am going to tellen them,” H’aanit said.

“Don’t,” Cyrus said quickly.

Therion arched an eyebrow at the intense staredown between the scholar and the huntress.

“Tell us what?” Primrose demanded.

“You’re not…” Therion waggled a finger between Cyrus and H’aanit. “With each other?”

Primrose turned to him, taken aback. “Why do you always instantly go there? You have got to work on your trust issues.”

“We aren cursed,” H’aanit said sternly. Cyrus looked at her, irritated. “Like mine Master.”

“You’re turning to stone?” Therion asked. It was like a punch to the gut.

“It’s not like that.” Cyrus shook his head, dismissive.

“It will been like that, if thou dost not drink the potion,” H'aanit scolded.

“I don’t need it yet.” Cyrus frowned. “Save it for when it worsens.”

“It hath worsened. I can seen thee distracted by the voice of the curse.” H'aanit’s voice had a hard edge, but there was concern hidden within. “The potion helpeth.”

“Why did you not tell us?” Primrose asked.

“I did not want to concern you two. And behold, H’aanit, they’re concerned. Thank you so much for heeding my request.” Cyrus’ sarcasm was biting.

H’aanit grunted, and pulled a vial of liquid from her pack. She held it out at arm’s length. Cyrus gave her a patronizing look.

“Cyrus,” Therion said, brow furrowed.

Cyrus shook his head. “I can handle it. My mind does what I wish it to. If the mind control blood magic in the Quarrycrest sewers couldn’t overcome me, I don’t see how some ridiculous curse could do so.”

“It overtaketh my Master,” H’aanit said.

“I am not he.” Cyrus spoke definitively.

Therion took the vial from H’aanit, uncorked it, and sniffed at the contents. It smelled like dead leaves after heavy rains. Cyrus was watching him. Therion met his gaze. 

“Take your damn medicine,” Therion said. 

“I don’t need--”

“If not for you, then for me,” Therion said quietly. “I don’t… I can’t…” He was suddenly aware of Primrose and H’aanit, listening to his words. He thrust the bottle towards Cyrus, who took it. Then he stomped off along the path, cheeks burning.

Cyrus watched him go, and without moving his eyes, uncorked the bottle and took a swig. Annoyed, he handed the bottle back to H’aanit, and continued after Therion.

\--- --- ---

When they walked into Northreach-- a windswept, desolate looking settlement-- the search for shelter and a warm hearth began immediately. 

As they walked down the main street, they heard a shout from an alleyway.

“Stop! Those are mine!”

Another voice shouted at the first. “And you’ll hand it all over, if you know what’s good for ya!”

A quick glance down the alleyway revealed a pair of men in black cloaks accosting a feather-capped merchant man, rustling his laden pack from his shoulders.

“We should helpen him,” H’aanit said, reaching for her bow. 

“Not our business, not our problem.” Therion muttered, not slowing. “Keep moving.”

“Therion,” Prim said.

He whirled, still walking backwards. “Low profile. Don’t want to let him know I’m here. Keep moving.”

The group continued to the inn, H’aanit wearing a discontented frown.

They entered the inn’s common room. Therion and Primrose were drawn to the warm fireplace, while Cyrus and H’aanit went to the front counter. The innkeeper watched them suspiciously from behind a curtain, and didn’t move until Cyrus flashed him one of his disarming smiled. He looked them up and down as he approached.

“You folks ain’t from around here, eh?” He spoke slowly, eyeing them, wondering at the contrast between a smartly-dressed scholar and a fur-clad huntress.

“No. Because if we were, we would have no need of an inn,” Cyrus said simply.

“You should do your business and move on, eh?” the innkeeper warned. “This town’s gone to hell, if you’ll pardon the language, ma’am.” He nodded to H’aanit.

“What is the trouble?” she asked.

The innkeeper grunted and shook his head. “Thieves have moved in, eh? Whole gang of ‘em. Doin’ nothin’ but causin’ trouble and hasslin’ folks. Surprised word hasn’t reached ya. It’s seemed to scare everyone else away from comin’ here. How many rooms you be wantin’?”

Cyrus frowned at H’aanit. 

“Two,” she said.

“Gotcha.” The innkeeper selected some room keys from his cabinet. “You folks might want to think about gettin’ some fake coin purses. Put a little bit in there, so when the muggers stop ya, you have something to give ‘em, but they don’t get all of your money, eh?”

“‘Tis that bad?” H’aanit asked.

The innkeeper nodded. “If you see them men in the black cloaks? Try not to look ‘em in the eye, or let yourself be alone on the streets with them.” He slid the keys across the counter to Cyrus, who passed him some coin. “And don’t go out there alone.”

“Much obliged,” the scholar said. He motioned to Therion and Primrose, and they headed up the stairs.

Standing outside their neighboring rooms, Primrose snatched a key from Cyrus.

“We’ll go set down our stuff, freshen up a bit, and meet you two downstairs?” She didn’t wait for an answer before nodding to H’aanit, and heading for the room she chose.

Therion plucked the other key from Cyrus’ outstretched hand, opened the other door, and pushed through. Once inside, he flopped himself down on the bed, kicking his boots off, dragging his hands over his eyes. He exhaled loudly, listening to Cyrus close the door and set down his things, then whisper an incantation to light the small fireplace. After a bit, he felt the movement of the mattress as the scholar sat on the bed next to him. 

"I drank the potion," Cyrus said.

Therion peeked out from between his fingertips. Cyrus was staring off in the middle distance.

"You want me to say thank you?"

"Simply wanted to make sure that you knew." 

The thief said nothing for a time, then raised his head. “Is it bad? H'aanit said… something about a voice?”

“Don't concern yourself. I can handle it.” As Cyrus said this, he winced-- the insidious voice in his head directly contradicted this. The potion clearly hadn't taken full effect yet.

Therion let himself sink back into the mattress. “Just one more thing that makes this whole thing suck.”

Cyrus turned to face him, bracing himself on the bed with a hand near Therion's hip. "Are you afraid?"

Therion didn't respond. There was exhaustion in the scholar's eyes, but he continued. "It’s natural. I’m concerned _for_ you. This man did almost kill you before."

"Twice," Therion grumbled. To answer the question on Cyrus' face, he yanked up the side of his tunic and undershirt to reveal the scar. "This one was him, too."

"The large one."

"Yeah, the..." Therion sat up to look at the smaller mark along his hip, a scar so faded he had almost forgotten about it. "That one's me being a stupid kid." He gave a weak laugh. "They're all me being stupid, really."

Cyrus' smile was bittersweet. He laid a gentle finger against the end of the scar on Therion's side, tracing it to where it ended near his navel. "I won't allow him to hurt you again."

"I can take care of myself." Therion shuffled his tunic down over his exposed skin, and laid back. "I'm not afraid of him."

Therion knew this was a lie as soon as it was out of his mouth. Cyrus studied him.

"They say that bravery is not the absense of fear. It is merely the will to face it." 

"They say a lot of things," Therion muttered. " _They_ don't have to actually do any of it."

Cyrus was looking down at him. Therion's thoughts boiled in his brain. Doubt, restlessness, anxiety, and fear-- he was used to all that on a low simmer. Every step towards Northreach had turned up the heat. It was getting to be too much to bear. And here was Cyrus, so close to him after his cold distance all the way from Stillsnow… it was almost a physical unease. 

His muscles stirred with nervous energy, making it impossible for him to lie still. He reached a hand for Cyrus, latching on to the front of his shirt, pulling him down towards him, desperate for something. Cyrus caught himself with an arm across Therion's shoulder, his lips barely a breath away. Therion tilted his chin up to meet his kiss.

The sensation pushed the anxiety out of his mind. He needed more. He curled one hand into the scholar's hair, the other holding fast to the front of his shirt, not letting him pull away. Cyrus’ touch was on his waist, then back onto his stomach where he had traced the old scar. His hand roamed upwards, tugging his tunic up as it trailed over warm skin. 

Therion wanted to tell him he needed him. He knew he couldn't make the words happen. So, he just grabbed for the back of Cyrus’ belt, pulling him up onto the bed. He broke away the kiss to concentrate on the complicated clasp on the scholar's cloak.

"The ladies will be waiting," Cyrus murmured, lips toying with the thief's ear.

"I don't care." Therion pushed the cloak off, attacking the rest of Cyrus’ clothes. "Let them wait."

Cyrus smiled and kissed him again, letting Therion tug his clothes off from underneath him. Therion slunk down, pulling Cyrus close to him so his lips could meet his neck, his collarbone, his chest, then back up. He let his hands wander down Cyrus’ back, around the curve of his rear, then circling to meet in the front of his hips. Undoing the fastenings, he slipped a hand down beneath the scholar’s waist, closing around the hardened desire there. 

Cyrus let out a little groan above Therion’s head. “Slowly, please,” he whispered, kissing the thief’s forehead. “I’ve been wanting you, and too much will be the end of me, I’m sure.”

Therion lightened his touch, pulling his mouth away from Cyrus’ neck. He was looking down at him, that burning intensity in his eyes again. Therion smirked. “You’ve been thinking about me…” he slowly stroked the scholar’s arousal, “like this?”

“Only when I cannot sleep.” Cyrus said, kissing him, not telling him that as he wracked his brain for something to drive the voice of the curse away, thoughts of Therion were one of the few things that seemed effective. Instead, he helped him shrug out of his tunic and undershirt. 

Therion pushed the clothes to the floor. He smiled mischievously. “What kinds of things were you thinking about doing to me?”

Cyrus matched his expression. “If I speak them aloud, we’ll need a cleric to come in here and sanctify the room…” he kissed Therion’s chest, “and exorcise my tongue.”

“I’ll give you a way to exercise your tongue,” Therion said, unfastening the front of his pants.

“Ex-OR--” Cyrus began, but stopped himself. “Nevermind.” He slid Therion’s trousers down, the thief lifting his hips for Cyrus to take off the rest of his clothes. Therion lay naked on the bed, aware, as always, of the metal band around his straining arousal. 

Cyrus traced a hand down the thief's body, and Therion leaned in to the touch, eyes never leaving the scholar’s. Cyrus nudged his legs apart, settling between them as his fingers brushed over the thief's cock. Therion breathed in sharply, and Cyrus smiled at him as he brought his mouth down to meet his hand.

Cyrus had found that a scientific approach served him well in most things-- experiment, collect data, alter one’s approach until a meaningful conclusion could be reached. Sex was no exception to this, in his mind. Because of this, and numerous opportunities for experimentation, he had determined the particular movements of his tongue and lips, the appropriate pressures, the motions and speed necessary in order to drive Therion wild. 

He applied the results of his research now, eliciting moans and shudders from Therion. He was careful not to build it too much, too quickly. He wanted to draw it out, to keep Therion floating in bliss for a while. He relished every little sigh that came from the thief’s mouth, one hand trailing over Therion’s stomach. He looked up to watch the thief’s face, the candid expressions of pleasure so different than his typical cynical smirk, with his lips parted and the flush on his cheeks. Once Therion reached a certain state, he abandoned all restraint. To Cyrus, seeing his descent into unabashed desire was particularly exhilarating. But that wasn’t all he wanted, this time.

Shifting his balance, Cyrus took Therion’s length deeper into his mouth. The moan came from above him as Therion’s reached the tightness in the back of the scholar’s throat. He still worked his lips, sliding Therion in and out of his throat as long as he dared, as long as his breath would hold out. He felt the thief’s body respond to the intensity, Therion threading his fingers through Cyrus’ hair. He came up for breath twice, returning Therion to the depths of his throat each time, until he finally pulled away, leaving the thief's cock wet and straining.

“Shit,” Therion breathed. A slow smile spread across his face. “This is what you were thinking about doing to me?”

Cyrus slowly stroked Therion’s length. “No,” he said, “but this is something I was thinking about doing to you.” He shifted his hands under Therion’s knees, angling him backwards, leaving him helplessly exposed, legs in the air. Cyrus’ head lowered, and Therion felt the warm, wet pressure of the scholar’s tongue against his opening. His nerves sang as Cyrus slowly and deliberately teased pleasure out of him. 

“Fuck,” Therion whispered, overcome by the sensation rolling through him in slow, inescapable throbs. Cyrus’ hand still toyed with his cock, but that was overshadowed by the feeling from lower down. He felt himself rocking into it, against the hand, against the tongue, against the feeling of overwhelming warmth building within him. Cyrus slid a finger easily inside him, and Therion lost his last shred of control. He needed it. Gods damn it, he needed it.

Therion sat up quickly, and with one smooth motion, rolled Cyrus over onto his back, pinning him to the bed. The scholar smiled up at him as Therion attacked his clothing, wrenching his pants down desperately, not even waiting for Cyrus to kick his clothes off the bed. Therion was straddling him, rubbing the head of the scholar’s length against his needy entrance. 

“Slowly,” Cyrus whispered, his hands on Therion’s sides.

Therion shook his head. “I can’t make any promises.” He slid himself down onto Cyrus’ cock, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the satisfaction of being filled. The scholar’s fingers clutched at him as he began rocking his hips, riding him. Cyrus’ hands traveled down to grab handfuls of his ass, holding tight as Therion quickened his pace, bracing himself with one hand against the scholar’s chest, the other around himself. He chased the peak Cyrus had teased within him the whole time. 

It didn’t take long before the climax came, tensing and releasing every muscle in his body, and he collapsed forward, crying out in pleasure, seed spilling onto Cyrus’ stomach. The scholar shifted his hips to continue thrusting inside him, Therion’s head falling forward onto Cyrus’ shoulder. The scholar kissed the top of his head as he finished in turn, clutching Therion tightly, as if swearing to never let him go.

Therion slid himself off of Cyrus, content at the thought of his cum inside him. He lay next to him on the bed. He rested his head on his chest, and Cyrus’ arms encircled him. Not once, since Therion had kissed him and pulled him onto the bed, had Cyrus heard the voice of the Redeye’s curse.

It didn’t take very long before Therion heard the change in Cyrus’ breathing that told him he had drifted off to sleep. The thief was too restless to lay still, too anxious to nap. He slid himself carefully out from under Cyrus’ arm, pulling the blanket up over his bare, sleeping form. Therion dressed quickly, then headed downstairs. The girls sat close together on a sofa in front of the hearth, steaming cups of tea in their hands. Primrose looked up first to notice him as he ventured over.

“Finally,” Primrose scolded. Therion glanced up at her, but didn't respond. He leaned on the back of their sofa, arms folded over his chest. 

“Where is Cyrus?” H'aanit asked.

“He's asleep.”

Primrose caught his eye, smirking. “You two made up, then?”

Therion met her look with a flat one of his own. “I can go wake him up, if you need him down here to amuse you.” His tone was scathing, but Prim didn't flinch.

“T'is good,” H'aanit nodded. “He hath not been sleeping.”

“He hasn’t?” Therion asked.

“Why do you not know that?” Primrose asked.

“I got a lot of shit to worry about already.” Therion scowled, then softened as he turned to H’aanit. “Is it… is it the curse? Why he can’t sleep?”

H’aanit shrugged. Therion dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Well, we’re here for your mission,” Primrose said. “Where to?”

Therion rubbed the back of his neck, sliding his fingers beneath the hidden collar to reach an itch. “I need to find Darius, but I get the sense that this isn’t the kind of town where you just go around asking questions unless you want your teeth knocked in.”

“The tavern?” Prim suggested.

Therion nodded. 

\--- --- ---

They entered the tavern separately, Primrose and Therion hanging back behind the corner of the building while H’aanit went in first. Therion’s thought was that they would arouse less suspicion, and have ears and eyes in more places. As the thief and the dancer lurked in the shadow of the wall, they watched another pair of black-cloaked men walk past, laughing to themselves. 

“There’s two more,” Primrose whispered, nodding in their direction. “H’aanit told me the innkeeper warned her and Cyrus to stay away from them. They’re like a gang. You think the man you’re after is part of them?”

Therion frowned. “Darius isn’t a follower. If he’s involved, he’s in charge of them.”

“That conversation we overheard in the Obsidian Parlor…” Primrose shook her head. “About sending girls up here? And them not coming back?”

“Some madman running everything…” Therion bit his lower lip. “Gonna be tons of fun breaking in there.” He shook his head. “You go on in next. See if you can get someone in one of those cloaks to buy you a drink, or something. Get him talking.”

Primrose gave him a wink, then shimmied her way to the door.

Therion crossed his arms, waiting for a few minutes, shivering. It was the middle of the day, sun high overhead, and still the cold sunk into his bones. Once he could no longer calm the chattering of his teeth, he made his way to the front door of the tavern.

It was a decent-sized afternoon crowd, he supposed. He spotted a few of the black-cloaked thugs around-- one at a table with Primrose, and another two watched closely by H’aanit, who hung against a wall and sipped an ale. Therion didn’t let his eyes linger on them, lest anyone’s suspicions rise. He walked up to the bar, settled on a stool, and waved a few fingers at the bartender. The man looked at him and frowned, unmoving.

Therion stared at him. “Do you not want to sell me a drink?” He began to wonder if perhaps he stunk, and traveling had just made him noseblind to his own smell. 

The bartender shuffled forward, clearly nervous. “We’re all out.”

Therion narrowed his eyes. “Just now, you ran out?” He looked back around the tavern. “Everyone else seems to have a drink.” He turned back to the barkeep. “What’s the problem? I have money.”

“Look,” the bartender said, dropping his voice, “I’ve been told to be on the lookout for a short man with pale hair and a purple scarf.” 

Therion bristled at the word “short.” 

“And since you seem to fit the description, I’d tell you to get the hell out of town as quick as you can, even if you’re not the guy Lord Darius is after.”

_Lord Darius._ Therion couldn’t suppress his laughter. The bartender looked stern.

“What, he tell you to serve me poison or something?” 

The bartender shook his head. “I don’t want any part of this, I don’t want any trouble. I give them the kegs and the casks when they ask, and I don’t worry about their late or lack of payment. I keep my head down, and I do what I’m told.” He narrowed his eyes at Therion. “You should do the same. Please get out of my tavern.”

Therion stood up. “Well, that’s probably the nicest way anyone’s ever thrown me out of a bar.” From the corner of his eye, he watched the two men at the far table tense when he moved. The bartender’s eyes flickered over to them, then back at Therion. He went pale. Therion felt the first wave of adrenaline course through him. Feeling like he needed to move, he slapped the bar, and pushed away, headed for the door. The two men in the black cloaks followed. 

Once out in the cold, rebundling his face under his scarf, Therion hastened down the street. Two pairs of feet crunched after him. He quickened his pace, just short of a jog, and ducked down a side street. He heard the footsteps behind him quicken, and he broke into a sprint. He spotted an entrance to an alleyway, and dashed in, pressing himself against the building. A sudden panic made him check behind him for footprints, but the snow was so dirty and downtrodden, that his were indistinguishable from the rest. He heard the two men approaching, and he snuck himself further down the alley, scoping out a hiding place. He heard the voices in the street behind him.

“The hell did he go?” One of the men was complaining, but hadn’t ventured down the alley yet. Therion crouched behind some old barrels that reeked of stale lager.

“It wasn’t even ‘im!” the second man shouted. “It’s fuckin’ cold. Let’s go.”

“But what if it was, though?” the first argued.

“You go and find out then, eh? I’m going back to the tavern.”

“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me when Darius decides to promote me, then!”

The second man stomped off, but the first ventured down the alleyway. Therion tensed, hand on his dagger. He wasn’t nearly as concealed as he wanted to be. The thug would find him soon. Best to get the upper hand.

Therion summoned his courage, and leapt out from his hiding place, dagger poised, screaming what he hoped was a disarming battle cry.

“I’ll make this quick!” He shouted, trying not to panic when he saw that his foe was taller, bulkier, and had a longer blade than he did. The man was caught off guard, but quickly recovered.

“It is you,” he sneered. “Yer the one he’s always rantin’ about when he’s in his cups,” the thug shook his head. “Oh, does he hate you.”

Therion flexed his free hand, something to expend the nervous energy, knowing full well the fight was coming. “Does he now? What does he say about me?”

“You’ll get a chance to hear it yourself, I reckon, after I take you back there.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“What you think you’re gonna do to stop me, you little--” he lunged forward with his blade drawn. Therion whirled aside, but at that same moment, an arrow sprouted from the thug’s throat. He clawed at it, choking for breath, as a heavy kick to the back sent him flying forward into the snow. H’aanit stood there, bow in hand, glaring down at the man fighting for air on the ground.

Therion, pressed back against the wall of the alleyway, shot an angry look at H’aanit. “I was gonna try to get him to tell me where Darius’ hideout is.”

H’aanit shouldered her bow. “He attacketh thee. Thou art welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Therion stared down at the thug as he went blue in the face. “Probably not gonna get him to talk much now, huh?”

“Not unless thou art an apothecary.”

Therion sighed. “Well, he seemed like an asshole anyway.” He looked at H’aanit. “You are surprisingly calm about killing a man in the middle of the day, by the way.”

“Life is life,” H’aanit said. “I taken what is necessary to sustainen and protecten mineself and mine friends.”

“We’re friends?”

H’aanit’s look was stoic. “Why not? We aren traveling together. Thou art friends with Cyrus and Primrose, and so am I.”

Therion stared for a moment. _Just once, can we go someplace without killing the dudes trying to attack us? Or even just not get attacked?_ “Maybe we drag him back over by those busted-up barrels and see if Primrose has any leads.” 

As they walked back to the tavern, they saw Primrose up ahead of them, hanging onto the arm of a black-cloaked man. From their place down the path, they heard her loud, fake laughter. They were heading for the inn.

“What is she…?” H’aanit began, confused.

“Let her work,” Therion cautioned. “She knows what she’s doing.”

Primrose led the man up to the second inn room, while Therion and H’aanit lurked on the stairwell. They waited maybe a full ten minutes before sneaking closer to the door.

“Dost thou thinketh she is alright?” H’aanit whispered.

Before Therion could answer, the door creaked open, and Primrose stuck her head out through the slim opening.

“Oh, hey there,” she said, opening the door wider. Behind her, they could see the man who had followed her, naked and bound to the bed, something shoved in his mouth to gag him. H’aanit averted her eyes.

“The hell is that?” Therion asked.

“He told me he was into kinky stuff.” Primrose shrugged. “I thought you might want to talk to him.”

They entered the room, Primrose locking the door behind him, while the thug struggled against his bindings.

“Relax, man,” Therion said. “Just need some answers from you.” He snatched up a bedsheet from where it had been kicked to the floor, tossing it up to hide their captive’s nakedness. Therion reached forward and pulled the gag out-- it turned out to be the thug’s own smallclothes. Therion dropped them to the floor once he realized.

“Hey, fuck you,” the thug spat. “I ain’t gotta tell you nothing. When Lord Darius finds out--”

Therion laughed, half at Darius’ title, half at the idea that he would give a shit about this guy. “You really think he cares enough to find out where you are? Please. He probably doesn’t even know your name.” 

The man went quiet.

“What _is_ your name?” Therion asked.

“...Hudsen.”

“Hudsen. Great. I’m Therion.” 

The thug’s eyes widened.

“So you’ve heard of me,” Therion said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re gonna tell me all about what Darius has going on here, and where he is, and how I get in there.”

Hudsen narrowed his eyes at Therion. “And if I don’t?”

Primrose brandished her dagger. “Then we neuter you.”

“Shit, Primrose, tone it down a bit.” Therion said, but turned back to the bound thief, whose eyes were even wider. “Yeah, she doesn’t listen to me, so…” he shrugged. “Might be in your best interest to talk, rather than take your chances with her.”

Hudsen told them everything. Where the hideout was, what the secret password was, the typical schedule of things happening in den of thieves. When Primrose asked about the girls from the Obsidian Parlor, it was clear he didn’t want to tell her. She was able to coax out some roundabout answers, which only made her reach for her dagger.

“Keep him alive,” Therion said, snatching up Hudsen’s discarded clothes from the floor.

“Why does it matter?” Primrose asked angrily. “He already told you everything you need to know.”

“But you said--” Hudsen protested.

“Exactly,” Therion interrupted, pulling off his scarf and tunic, yanking the black cloak on. “He talked. It’s only fair.” He kicked off his boots to change his pants, and H’aanit held a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. 

Primrose just stared him down. “So you just want me to let him go?!” 

“‘Course not.” Therion fastened the borrowed trousers-- which were a little too baggy on him-- and stepping into his boots. “He’ll just go tell Darius and blow my cover. Keep him here until I get back.”

“I’m not a prison guard,” Primrose snapped.

“And I don’t trust most of what this guy just told me,” Therion said. 

“Hey!” Hudsen cried, offended.

Therion gave him a look. “Come on, man. I’m a thief, too. I wouldn’t trust me.”

“Fair,” the captured thief said, shrugging in his bounds.

Therion turned to Primrose. “It won’t take long. Give me… a couple hours. I _do_ believe the part about them all getting drunk every night. I’ll hang out until then, get the stones, sneak out while everyone’s passed out, be back here by morning.”

“Thou shouldest not go alone,” H’aanit cautioned. “We shalle comen with thee.”

Therion and Hudsen both started laughing. H’aanit bristled.

“Yeah, because that’s not going to be totally conspicuous,” Therion said.

“You want to get yourself noticed right away, go on in there,” Hudsen laughed.

H’aanit fumed. “I am glad thou and thine captive are such good friends already,”

“Cyrus, then,” Primrose said. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

Therion shook his head. “You know how he is. The idea is to _not_ be noticed. It’s gotta be me, and only me.” He combed his hair off his forehead with his fingers while he tugged the hood over his head, tucking every strand back so none of it was visible.

“I don’t like it,” Primrose said.

“That’s too bad.” Therion shrugged. He piled his old clothes on a table at the side of the inn room, picking a few choice items out of the pockets of hjs tunic. “I’ll be fine.” He moved to the inn room door, but Primrose swished in front of him.

“Promise me you won't do anything stupid,” she said. Her expression was grave.

Therion cocked a smirk. “Aww. Didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t be a jackass,” she said. “Just watch your back.”

Therion’s expression hardened. He nodded. “Don’t worry unless I’m not back by tomorrow morning. But I will be. Don’t...” he hesitated. “Don’t let Cyrus freak out, okay?”

\--- --- ---

He felt a little guilty, leaving while Cyrus slept, but he figured it was for the best. He needed the sleep, he told himself. He would have drawn attention to himself-- his face, his voice… just all of him. And after Cordelia, he knew he didn’t want to drag Cyrus into anything that might be awaiting him in the thieves’ hideout-- whether it would be Dragonstone-included madness, or just plain old Darius crazy.

Hudsen had told him that the entrance was beneath an old granary, east of town. He didn’t entirely believe this, but he headed vaguely east until he spotted a pair of black-cloaked thugs struggling with a large barrel of beer, shouting profanities at each other. Therion made sure his hair was completely covered before approaching them.

“Hey!” he called, feeling the spike of adrenaline rising within him. “You the ones I’m supposed to help with the ale?”

The thieves stopped arguing, and turned to him. “Who the hell are you?” one asked.

“The guys sent me to help you bring that beer back,” Therion said. “They say they’re gonna run out, and they’re pissed.”

“Good. You can carry it,” the second thief said, gesturing to the barrel in the snow.

“How come I ain’t never seen you before?” the first one asked.

_There’s always one,_ Therion thought. “Uh, ‘cause I just got here?” he said, affecting an attitude. “My buddy Hudsen told me there was a good thing goin’ up here. That I should come and join up. So I did.”

“Hudsen, huh?” the first thief asked.

“He’s that cocky asshole, spends all his time in the tavern,” the second one scoffed.

Therion laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like him. So you want a hand, or what?”

“Be my guest,” the second thief gestured to the barrell again, and Therion braced himself to help the first thief carry it. All he had to do was follow their lead to the hideout, which-- surprise, surprise-- was not where Hudsen said it was. The password the first thief gave wasn’t even remotely close to what Therion had been told.

The entrance to the hideout was outside a broken down old cathedral. They carried the ale down through the cellars, then up into a common room filled with black cloaks. The thieves cheered when they saw the drink brought in, and Therion made sure to hide himself carefully behind the barrel. He tried to listen past the pounding in his ears for Darius’ voice, for that laughter etched into his brain. Gratefully, he didn’t hear it.

As the thieves jostled and swore at each other in an effort to fill their steins and mugs, Therion was able to slink around the shadows of the room. It was clearly an old church, with light streaming in through stained glass images of the twelve gods, an old, moldy carpet down the center leading towards a raised alter, and ramshackle pews heaped about the room. These had mostly been turned into benches, some makeshift tables set up, and some bedrolls piled around some burning braziers fixed against the walls. There was broken glass from shattered mugs and discarded chicken bones littering the floor, and an overall stench of stale beer and piss. All they needed was to start with the bawdy, off-key singing, and it was pretty much what Therion had expected. He snatched himself a mug of beer, partly to remain inconspicuous, and partly to calm his raging nerves.

He slunk down near enough to a group that he could nod and laugh at the conversation, but not close enough that he would be expected to talk. He eyed the room, looking for locked doors or chests, anywhere valuables would be hidden.

He heard one of the thieves loudly say the name “Darius,” and he was instantly alert. Trying to keep his cool, he sipped his beer and looked to the speaker.

“He’s probably down in the treasure room, countin’ again,” another thief laughed.

“Someone down there watchin’ him, to make sure he don’t steal away all the good shit?”

There was laughter from the group.

“Shit, you know he’s already taken all the good stuff to hide away in that room o’ his.” The thief who said this jabbed his thumb up at the altar at the back of the church. Therion’s eyes followed it. There was a room back there, off to the side, maybe used as a private office or something for the original pastor of this church.

“How come he gets his own room, an’ the rest of us got to sleep out here on the floor like dogs?” a thief complained.

“‘Cause he’s a _lord_ ” came the response, followed by laughter from the table. Therion himself couldn’t help but smirk, mapping out the least conspicuous way to that door, watching the thieves in the room to see how many might glance in that direction.

He waited a while before making his move, walking nonchalantly towards the front altar, pretending to socialize with groups on the way, laughing when they laughed. When he was sure no one was looking, he slunk up against the wall near the door, sipping his beer, watching the room, trying the knob. It was locked, of course. He slipped his lockpick out of the pocket of the borrowed pants, and worked at the door. It was trickier to do it one handed, without looking, as he continued to sip his beer and watch the room. He smiled to himself as he felt the lock click open. He pushed the door open, and waited. No movement from within, and no one noticed without. He slipped inside, shutting the door silently behind him.

Therion scanned the room quickly. There was a dying fireplace, a bed against the wall, discarded clothes and cups around the small room, and random clutter on the floor and furniture. There was a large black and purple banner on the wall, emblazoned with the emblem of a crow. Therion knew immediately that his hunch was right, though, as he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, felt his blood beginning to stir. The Dragonstones were here. _And Darius would hide them…_ He surveyed the room once more, then dove to the floor to look under the bed. A small wooden box was pushed far back, against the opposite wall. Therion had to drop all the way to the ground to reach it, his fingers barely able to nudge the corner of the box towards him. Once he snagged it, he pulled it out quickly, rising up to his knees, placing the box in front of him. There was another lock, but Therion knew he would be able to make short work of it.

\--- --- ---

H’aanit and Primrose were softly strategizing a plan to sneak Linde into the inn room through the window while their captive thief snoozed, his hands still bound to the headboard. There was a crisp knock at the door that alerted all of them. H’aanit went to open it, hand on her axe.

It was Cyrus, looking a little better than he had that morning. “Is Therion in here? I don’t…” he looked past the huntress to notice the man tied to the bed, wearing only a blanket thrown over his waist. “What in the world--?”

Cyrus stepped into the room, while Primrose rose between him and the bed. “Let me explain.” She waited for H’aanit to close and lock the door. “It's fibe. It's under control. We’re keeping him prisoner until Therion gets back.”

The captive thief was awake now. He smiled cheekily at the scholar. “Ah, you must be this Cyrus everyone's been talking about.”

Cyrus glared at him. “And who in the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I'm Hudsen.” He gave him a goofy grin.

Cyrus just shook his head. “Where are his clothes?”

“Therion hath them,” H’aanit said.

“You don’t keep a man tied up like that, have some decency.” Cyrus moved to untie him, but H’aanit stopped him.

“He art a thief.”

Cyrus gave her a hard stare. “So is Therion. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He’s a thug, part of that gang the innkeeper was warning you two about,” Primrose said. “He works for Darius, that guy that wanted Therion dead at the Black Market.” 

Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest. “Just because you work for someone doesn't make you similar to them. I used to work for Yvon, and he was an overconfident megalomaniac.”

“Well…”

“I hear that tone in your voice, and I'm choosing to ignore it.” Cyrus looked down at the captive, who was still grinning like an idiot. He shook his head, returning to Primrose. “Where is Therion?”

“He useth this man’s clothes to sneaken in to the den of thieves,” H’aanit said.

“By himself?!”

“We tried, he insisted,” Prim explained.

“No.” Cyrus shook his head, taking a few steps towards the door, then turning on his heel and taking a few steps back from where he came. _WhAt DiD yOu Do?_ “No. We need to go after him.”

“You’ll blow his cover,” Primrose said.

“You let him go confront that man who has nearly killed him, TWICE, by himself,” Cyrus said accusingly. _YoU sHoULd HaVe BeEn ThEre… YoU feLL AsLeEp. UseLeSs._

“He’s an adult.” Primrose crossed her arms.

“You don’t know what’s already happened,” Cyrus snapped.

“Because neither one of you will tell anyone what’s going on!”

H’aanit stood between them, holding up conciliatory hands. “Let us talken about this calmly.”

“Aww,” Hudsen complained from the bed. “I wanted to see a fight.”

All three travelers shot him angry looks.

“Therion saideth he would returnen by morn,” H’aanit said. “Mayhaps we waiten for then to be angry at each other.”

Cyrus sighed, and sank into a chair.

“Then I get to see the fight?” the captive thief asked.

“Shut up,” Prim scowled.

\--- --- ---

The lock clicked open, and Therion felt the rush he always did at this point in a job. The moment right before he laid hands on his prize, when the momentum would shift from sneaking in slowly, to hightailing his way out of there. He opened the lid, and stared at the contents.

Inside, there was space enough for three gemstones, but the box only held two, sitting on some cushioning cloth, so they didn’t bump around. There was the emerald he had held earlier in the Black Market, and another stone with a golden yellow color, about the same size and cut. Between them, however-- and this was the part that made Therion pause-- there sat a fresh-looking, shiny red apple. Temporarily ignoring the Dragonstones, Therion picked up the fruit. It smelled fresh, too. Without thinking, he took a bite.

Something in the wall shifted. The crow banner on the wall rippled, and the wall behind it slid open to reveal a hidden staircase. Darius emerged, seeing only a hooded figure crouched near his bed, Dragonstones open before him.

“What the ‘ell do ye think yer doin’?!” Darius raged. “I'll have yer hands fer--” 

Therion looked up, chunk of apple still in his mouth. Darius stopped, as if he forgot how to speak, as soon as he recognized who he had found. When he spoke again, it was a hushed whisper.

“Therion.”

There was something deep in his expression that made Therion pause with his hand on the hilt of his dagger and remain crouched against the side of the bed. Darius got that look he had often had in quiet moments, the one Therion had read so much in to, trying to infer the things he knew Darius could never bring himself to say out loud. The look that had always made Therion want to touch him, kiss him, just be near to him-- but he had known better then, and he certainly knew better now.

Before either of them could say anything, however, two thieves pushed through the door behind Therion.

“Lord Darius!” one called. “We saw this traitor breaking into your room!”

Darius stiffened at the other men's arrival and affected a scowl. “He's not one of us. Get ‘em out to the hall. I’ll deal with him.”

The thieves lunged for Therion, who pulled away. “Darius, just let me talk to you for a second.”

Darius himself flew at Therion, slamming him into the wall behind him, one hand on his neck and the other pinning his wrist. That hand still stupidly held on to the apple. Darius grabbed it from him, stare boring into Therion’s eyes. Darius’ face was just a breath away, snarling. Therion felt his muscles go limp, reflexively.

“I don't want yer talk.” He looked Therion up and down as he bit into the apple. Therion flinched as juice from it sprayed onto his face from Darius’ mouth.

“Yer after them stones, like I expected. We're ‘bout te steal the others outta that Ravus house. Ye still got that thing on yer cock that says yer workin’ for them?” Darius tossed the half-eaten apple, and reached down to grope at the front of Therion's trousers. With Darius’ other hand still on his neck, there wasn't much he could do to squirm away. Darius found the ring, while Therion’s cheeks burned. Darius laughed.

“Means ye got a way in,” he said. “Help us out, and I might overlook this… little insult.”

Therion set his jaw, affecting an attitude. “Yeah, okay. Because I know I can definitely trust your word.”

Darius laughed again. “Not like ye got the choice.”

Therion narrowed his eyes. “To be honest, I'm way more scared of her than I am of you.”

Darius grinned. “That'll change.”


	26. A Den of Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends. Next few chapters are gonna be rough. Darius. Enough said.
> 
> I’m not sure where the threshold for violence tags is, necessarily, but this one might be there? Cautionary warning, but honestly, if you've been reading this saga of fuckery, you probably aren't expecting anything less.

Darius’ two henchmen had grabbed hold of Therion’s arms, and wrestled him out into the main hall. Darius himself followed, laughing at the struggle. The two thieves were both taller and bulkier than he was, and were able to drag him along despite his protests.

“Stop ‘im right there,” Darius called when the two had gotten him as far as the old altar. It sat up on a bit of a higher level than the rest of the church. Even so, much of the carousing group failed to notice the commotion in the front of the hall as the henchmen forced Therion to his knees, wrenching his arms behind his back, holding his wrists and elbows tight.

“Listen up, fuckers!” Darius boomed, and the noise making quieted, replaced with glances and whispers in Therion's direction. “We got ourselves an intruder!”

A chorus of boos and shouts rained in from the assembled crowd. A few yelled things like, “Rat bastard!,” “Get ‘im!,” and “Bash ‘im in, Lord Darius!” Therion smouldered with the humiliation of being caught and the apprehension of what was to come. His fate was entirely reliant on Darius’ whim. From experience, he knew that was not a good position to be in.

Darius was basking in the attention. He nodded to the two thieves who held Therion. “Take them stolen clothes offa him. He hasn’t earned ‘em.”

The two henchmen wrested the black cloak from Therion. His attempt at resistance was met with a punch to the face. As he fell backwards, the thieves pulled the cloak off of him, taking his undershirt with it. When their hands were free of him, he attempted to scrabble to his feet, but was knocked over with a kick to the side. They were able to pin him to the ground, one thief planting a knee on his back. They yanked his arms behind his back and bound them tightly with a rope. Therion shouted obscenities at him as the assembled crowd laughed and jeered. Somewhere in the struggle, he had lost one of his boots. They were eventually able to pull him back up to his knees before Darius and the hall of onlookers, many of whom had stood and come closer.

“Turn out ‘is pockets, check ‘im for more weapons,” Darius said. “He sometimes keeps a knife in ‘is boot.”

The thieves groped him roughly, pulling his other boot off, taking the little he had in the trouser pockets. Darius strode over to him, holding up a hand to silence his men.

“Boys, I wanna introduce ye all to this asshole right here.” Darius grinned, and there was some laughter from the hall. Therion glowered at him, pulling against the rope binding his wrists. It was tight, digging into the skin.

Darius continued. “If ye've been in the business long enough, ye probably heard of him. This here's Therion.” There were some ‘ohhhh’s’ from the hall. 

“He's got skills like ye wouldn't believe. He even managed to sneak his way in here, past you useless lot!”

There were some grunts and complaints from the assembled thieves. Therion scowled out at them. There seemed to be more now than there had been earlier in the night-- probably two or three dozen of them. _What the hell was Darius’ game here?_

“But what ye lot don't know, and I do, is somethin’ else about him.” Darius flashed Therion a sadistic grin. “He sucks cock better’n any bitch ye'll ever meet!”

The room erupted into raucous laughter. Therion glared at him while he felt his skin burn.

“Ye horny fucks wanna see ‘im do it?”

_Oh. Oh, fuck._

Cheers and whistles came from the crowd as Darius stepped towards Therion, unbuckling his belt, looking down smugly at Therion’s horror. Someone yelled, “fuck his face!” and another screamed, “that's what he gets for breakin’ in here!” More shouts were indistinguishable from the general noise.

Darius wore a smile of triumph on his face. Therion stared up in disbelief.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, eyes pleading, though it would do little good. Darius did not change his mind once he made a decision, Therion knew.

“Ye ‘eard ‘em.” Darius stood before the kneeling Therion. “They wanna see a show.”

Darius grabbed the back of Therion’s head, pressing his face against the front of his opened pants, the solid hardness of his arousal crushing against Therion’s cheek. Cheers and shouts erupted from the crowd. Darius slapped at Therion’s face. He knew what he wanted. Reluctantly, Therion opened his mouth, lips pressing along the length through the fabric of Darius’ smallclothes. He had done this before-- it was one of Darius’ kinks, but he would never have admitted it or asked for it out loud. But before, it had been just them, without a catcalling audience of intoxicated henchmen watching, moving in closer, some rubbing at themselves. 

Darius tugged back on Therion’s hair, forcing him to look up at him. He did, lower lip curled around the outline of Darius’ erection. 

“Ye know what te do,” Darius said in a low voice. “An’ ye’ll do it right, or else I got a guy who’s damn good at yankin’ out teeth.” Darius chuckled. “He’s a sick fuck, alright.”

Therion’s bound hands clenched into fists behind his back. _Fuck this. If this is supposed to humiliate me, what happens when all your lackeys see you absolutely lose it in front of them, huh, Darius? Good luck pretending that you’re straight after they see what I can do to you._

Therion slid his mouth up along the length, pressing with his lips, until he reached the hem of the cloth. Taking it gently between his teeth, he pulled it down slowly, exposing Darius’ hard arousal. As he moved his head down, he let his cheek drag along Darius’ cock, all the while staring up at him with defiance in his eyes. He heard Darius’ sharp intake of breath, and this emboldened him. 

Therion ran his tongue along the length, never breaking eye contact, circling his tongue around the head. He knew how to play Darius’ nerves. The taller thief shuddered involuntarily, a silent gasp escaping from his lips. Therion's eyes burned up at him as he sank Darius into his throat, playing him expertly with his tongue. Darius had always thought he had the power, but not when Therion had him like this. Not when he had control over his pleasure.

Darius reached out a hand, tangling his fingers in Therion's hair as his mouth slid over his cock. He stifled a moan, and Therion felt a small sense of victory.

It was short lived. Self-conscious, Darius pushed Therion away, planting a foot against his shoulder to shove him to the ground. Therion fell over, unable to right himself with his hands bound. 

“Fuckin’ slut!” Darius yelled. There were jeers and shouts from the crowd. Darius laughed, walking over to Therion, planting a heavy boot on his sternum, pinning him to the floor. “Yer gonna fuckin’ get it now,” he sneered down. Therion glowered up at him.

Darius turned to his henchmen.

“I know them idiots in Stillsnow haven't sent ye motherfuckers any warm pussy in a long time,” Darius paused for noisy reaction from his assembled men, “but I'll let ye know that this fucker's ass is just as good as any cunt the likes of ye will ever get!”

Therion's eyes widened. _Oh fuck ohfuckohFUCK!_

His shout was lost amid the noise from the henchmen. Darius grinned. “Try to make ‘im last a bit, will ye?”

In blind panic, Therion raged against the ropes, against Darius’ weight on his chest. Darius only removed his boot once the hands were on him. The thieves grabbed for Therion’s arms, lifting him from the ground. He kicked out with both feet, thrashing, and connected with someone. He got a punch to the gut in return. Doubling over, he tried to use the momentum to pull away from the men holding him, but only succeeded in pulling away from a few to be grabbed by some more. Fists collided with his stomach, his chest, and his back, and he ended up thudding back to the ground. They clawed at his pants, kicking him when he wouldn’t cooperate. It seemed to take only seconds before they had stripped him naked. Strong hands gripped him and lifted his struggling body. They dragged him despite his stream of curses to the altar in the front of the church.

Vaguely, he thought of fire-- of conjuring a spell as his last defense. But the panic was too strong. There was no way he could center his thoughts enough to tap into that magic, not with the hands on him, not with the way they were dragging him, not with the way they were laughing, not with they way they had been touching themselves while Darius’ cock had been in his mouth.

Therion’s chest smacked into the top of the altar as the thieves angled him over it, bent at the waist, hips flush against the edge, hands uselessly bound behind his back. His toes touched the floor, but not enough for him to gain purchase, especially once the men behind him forced his legs apart, holding them still. They were all around him, closed in around the altar, with him at the center, many openly stroking themselves now, leering down at him.

He felt fingers spreading him open, and warm wetness as someone unseen behind him spit on his entrance. Hard pressure as something pushed against the clenched muscles, shoving angrily. The sharp, stabbing heat when it forced its way inside.

He screamed. There was blood in his mouth, and he had no idea where it was coming from.

Hands shoved his head down against the wood surface of the altar, every muscle in his face clenched. The noises around him-- shouts, laughter, moans, and taunts-- barely reached him through the pain. The intruder behind him had his hands on his ass, holding him open with his thumbs, as his cock thrust in and out of him. His own sensitive parts were trapped beneath his body, crushed against the surface of the altar with every jerk forward. 

“He's tighter than a cunt, damn.”

“Got that whole thing in his slutty ass already.”

“What a fuckin’ whore!”

Fingers pried at his mouth, forcing apart his clenched teeth while another hand pinned his head down. A few hands worked his jaw apart, and something metal was jammed inside-- something to keep his mouth open, something to keep him from fighting back with his teeth. His head still fixed against the altar, a thief moved his naked pelvis in front of Therion’s face, forcing his cock through the metal ring, down Therion’s defenseless throat.

“Suck it good, bitch.”

“Take that cock. All the way in.”

“Fuck, I ain’t no fag, but that’s damn hot.”

The thief behind him was quickening his pace, moving desperately, nearing his climax. He thrust violently against Therion, his hands digging in to his sides. He paused as he came, then gave a few more thrusts for good measure. When he pulled out, Therion felt wetness trickling down his thigh.

As soon as the first was removed, a second quickly took its place. The pain was lessened, either because of the change in size, the slickness first man’s cum inside of him, the exhaustion of his muscles from resisting, or just the pain shutting down Therion’s brain and making him go numb. Any protest of his was silenced by the cock gagging his throat. There was nothing Therion could do while the gang of Darius’ henchmen used his body for their pleasure.

“Fuck, he feels good…”

“Cum on his face, he'll probably love it.”

“Don't break him yet, I didn't get ta go!”

After the thief using his mouth pulled out to let his cum spill over Therion’s face and lips, and the one using his ass added his release to that left by the first thief, each was replaced by another man. Therion let his consciousness go. He wouldn’t think about the pain, about the utter humiliation, about just _how many_ men had been in that hall, about any of it. His mind went blank. His body stopped resisting. There was no point-- it would only hurt more if he continued to fight. He wouldn’t let himself think about what was happening, about what might happen once it was over, about even if it would ever be over. The pain throbbing throughout his body helped cloud his thoughts.

The Dragonstones, with their opposing elements, had been locked here in this cathedral with them since the Black Market. They had slowly been resonating their influence over the thieves this entire time. He had a passing realization about the open mouth gag holding open his jaw, and exactly why they even had that ready-- because of all of the girls from Stillsnow. The ones that hadn’t come back. 

Somewhere, amidst everything, someone had cut the rope binding his wrists. He had been turned over onto his back, The thieves held his knees apart so they could use his ass, still held his head down so they could use his throat, but now forced each of his hands around more anonymous cocks. When these men finished, they left strings of their cum layered across his chest and stomach. Above him, the jokes and slurs were interspersed with satisfied moans and grunts. A few jeered at the ring around his cock, prodding and grabbing at it, pinching at him, slapping at him. His body betrayed him, his cock inexplicably hardening despite everything. The metal ring kept it from subsiding. Therion kept his eyes closed.

“He loves it. Fuckin’ faggot!”

“Fuck ‘im harder, he wants it!”

He had no idea how long it went on for, how long it took before all of Darius’ henchmen had satisfied themselves, how many may have sauntered off for a drink and come back to use him a second time, or a third time. He only knew that eventually he realized there was only one left, finishing in his ass, adding more to what was already spilling out of him. When that thief pulled away, he was left lying on his back on the altar, legs dangling over the side, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think. Vaguely, he grabbed at the gag holding his jaw open, yanking it out of his mouth, hurling it weakly across the room. He heard it clatter in the distance.

Hands were grabbing his arms again, pushing him off the altar. He landed on the cold floor, crumpling, forehead against the ground. Someone yanked at the collar Cordelia had locked around his neck, threading a cold chain through it. Another was forced through on the other side, and he heard the rattling of chains and the clicking of a lock. Footsteps, as his captors left him. He pushed himself to his knees, painfully. His entire body ached.

The room had grown dark. Snores emanated from the bedrolls clustered around the faintly glowing braziers. Therion tugged weakly at the chains at his neck. They seemed to both be fastened to the other side of the altar. There was enough give for him to move a little, but not enough to get around to the other side. Where the lock would be. Because Darius knew he would be able to pick it open.

He collapsed to the floor, knees to his chest, arms wrapped over his face. 

He wondered if he would ever stop shaking. 

The chill of the night began to sink into his naked skin.

\--- --- ---

The snow fell lightly that evening. The town of Northreach was dark, no one braving the chill after the sun had gone down. The crescent moon had command of the night, and had been overseeing the twinkling stars that provided the only light in the desolate settlement-- apart from the candle burning on the end table in a second floor inn room.

"Don't you sleep, man?" 

Cyrus looked up over the top of his book. The captured thief, Hudsen, was still tied to the bed. The scholar had insisted on granting him the decency of some spare clothes, and they had already untied him twice to allow him to relieve himself. Linde had been a convincing guard each time. 

H'aanit and Prim had been able to sneak the leopard up through a window overlooking the back alleyway behind the inn, and the feline had definitely worried the prisoner. Now, late into the night, Linde stirred from her post on the floor between the bed and Cyrus' chair to eye the thief.

"I could ask the same of you," Cyrus said cooly. He had been aware of the man staring at him, Linde, the door, and his bindings, likely plotting an escape attempt-- hence his overnight watch.

"Napped all day," he said. "When your hot friends were in here. Which one of them are you fuckin'? The one with the hips, or the one with the tits?"

Cyrus glared at him over the top of his book. "I'd like to request kindly that you refrain from vulgarities when discussing my companions, please." Hudsen just laughed.

The scholar had been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. Typically, he was able to close away worries or intrusive thoughts, focus on the task at hand, which had usually been his studies or research. Every time he locked away distractions in a mental drawer, however, the voice of the curse seemed to wrest it open. Fears flooded his mind, and the struggle began anew to push away the interloping voice and refocus himself. 

_YoU'rE LoSiNg iT._

"Be quiet."

"I didn't say anything!" Hudsen said, offended.

"Not you." Cyrus sighed, setting his book down on the nearby table and rising to his feet. He needed to move. He walked over to the solitary window. He peeled back the thick curtain with a finger, staring out through the thick glass. He frowned at the darkness, scanning the eastern sky for any sign of dawn. The night was black. He pressed a palm against the windowpane, the unrelenting cold seeping through to his fingers. Shivering, he stepped away, letting the curtain fall back. 

He walked across the room in steady, measured paces, then turned and went back the way he came. When he returned to the window, he repeated his actions.

Cyrus paced like this, occasionally checking the window, long enough to bore the captive thief back into slumber. The only thing that interrupted the scholar was a soft knock on the door.

A sleepy-eyed Primrose stood behind it. Cyrus held the door for her to enter as she combed fingers through her hair, straightening what sleep had tangled. She had been reluctant to leave H’aanit’s side, curled up together in the bed. Sleeping together had become their custom, but just that-- actually sleeping together, fully clothed, innocent, refreshing. H’aanit’s murmuring had woken them both, and Primrose had felt the need to check on the Cyrus.

“I can take over,” she said, patting the dagger at her waist. “You need to get some sleep.” 

Cyrus looked at her impatiently, and resumed his pacing. He made a few passes while Primrose watched, arms folded. He stopped abruptly near the window.

“Why aren’t we out there already?”

Primrose sighed. “I told you. Because we’ll blow his cover and ruin everything and maybe get him killed.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Something's gone awry. He should have returned.”

“He said tomorrow morning. He’s not a child. He’s a professional thief; it’s what he does. Let him do his job.”

“I don't like it. Why didn't he tell me he was departing?” 

_BeCaUsE hE dOeSn'T tRuSt YoU. yOu'Re A LiAr. A fRaUd._

“He didn't want you to worry,” Primrose said. “Or insist on coming with him.”

The cursed voice raged. 

"Why would he--"

“You would have a hard time passing for a thief,” she interrupted. “I've never even heard you swear.”

“So, simply because I refuse to limit myself to a base vocabulary--”

“No, because you say things like that.”

Cyrus exhaled in exasperation, collapsing back down on his chair, resting his forehead in a hand. Primrose glided over to him.

“Why is this curse hitting you so much harder than H'aanit?” she asked softly. She let a hand curl around his shoulder.

“It isn’t.” His denial was automatic.

“She's asleep right now. She's been having nightmares, sure, but she's able to sleep.”

“I often did not sleep before. It was not atypical of me to stay up all night working on some problem or project.”

“But you're not working on anything.” Prim frowned. “At a certain point, you’re going to have to stop lying to yourself.”

“I can handle it.” Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “My mind is my strength, my own domain. I'm fine.” He glanced out the window. “I wish I knew the same for Therion.”

“Cyrus,” she sighed. “If you aren’t taking care of yourself, you can’t expect to be able to help anyone else. It’s just not possible.”

“Perhaps for ordinary people, that is true. But not for me.”

Primrose crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. I’m going to stay up and watch this idiot anyway, and it’ll be a waste of both of our times, and then won’t you feel stupid?”

Cyrus said nothing. He stood again and crossed to the window.

\--- --- ---

The icy water was like a thousand tiny pinpricks in Therion’s already frozen skin. He yelled, voice cracking, throwing up his hands in front of his face and jerking away as much as the chains on his neck would let him. One of Darius’ thugs leered down at him, dripping bucket in his hand.

“Wake up,” he growled. “Boss’ orders to wash the filth off of ya.”

“Fuck you,” Therion snapped. The thug hit him with the wooden bucket, and he flinched backwards, holding his face. The henchman pinned Therion’s chest down with a foot, while the other dumped a fresh pail of frigid water over him, a weak attempt at rinsing off the sweat, semen, saliva, and blood he had ended up covered in. Therion’s teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time the thug let him up, and as soon as he could, he recoiled into a ball. The henchman kicked at him.

“Get your back, too,” he ordered. “On your hands and knees, or we’re just gonna throw you out in the snow to wash you.”

“Dunk him in the river,” the second thug laughed.

“Idiot, the river’s frozen over.” 

“Yeah, I know.” They both laughed. Therion grit his teeth and struggled up to all fours.

The first thug smiled cruelly. “Spread your ass open.”

“Oh, what the fuck, man?!” Therion protested over his shoulder.

“I said do it, shithead! Unless you’re some kind of masochistic fuck who wants to make it worse for yourself on purpose.”

Therion swallowed a big gulp of his pride, and reached his hands back to do as he was ordered. The henchmen laughed as they dumped the rest of the freezing water over him, washing away only the evidence left on the surface. Therion bit his lip against the cold, and was still shivering when the thugs unlocked the chains hooked through his collar and wrested him up from under each arm.

Therion didn't have the strength in his legs to stand, so the two thieves dragged him into the room at the back of the church. They banged through the door, tossing Therion inside. He landed on something remarkably soft. And warm.

He shakily pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His fingers threaded through the dark fur underneath him. A bearskin rug. And at his side… he turned in gracious relief to the roaring fire in the hearth behind him. He stretched out his stiff, shaking hands to the warmth, thinking that he had never seen such a beautiful fire.

“That'll be fine, boys.” Darius’ voice was unmistakable.

“Ya sure, boss?”

“Go.”

The two thieves left the room, shutting the heavy door behind them. Therion didn't turn around.

“Here.” A coarse towel hit him in the back of the head. He twisted to grab it, rubbing it across his face, wincing when he pressed to hard on his swollen lower lip, or his surely broken nose. When he lowered the towel to his lap, he saw Darius sitting on the end of a bed, looking down at him. 

“Hell will be too good for you,” Therion croaked. His voice was weak, his throat raw. 

Darius’ face cracked into a toothy grin. “Wherever we’re goin’, I’ll see ye there.” Therion just shook his head, glaring. He didn’t have the energy left to scream out everything he wanted to. 

Darius reached for a small burlap sack lying on his bedside table, pulling out a red, round something. An apple, just like the one that had been in the box of Dragonstones. Therion eyed it, ignoring his stomach. That one earlier bite of fruit had been the only thing he had eaten all day. Darius tossed it at him, and he caught it.

“Don't worry, it's not poisoned or nuthin’.” Darius pulled another from the bag for himself.

Therion narrowed his eyes. “Could I get one that is?” he asked dryly.

Darius laughed heartily. “Nah, they're even Riverlands apples, not Flatlands ones. Threatened the provisioner get ‘em special, ‘cause I know ye like them better.”

Therion stared at him, uncomprehending. Darius bit down on the apple, sending juices flying.

“I knew ye were comin’, ever since the Market. I know how ye git when yer after somethin’. Innkeeper told me men ye were in town. Just a matter ‘o time. Tried to put some things around to catch yer interest, keep ye here when ye came, so we could catch ye. Booze didn't get ye, or the treasure room-- we got a shitton down there, I'll tell ye. Thought I'd catch ye linin’ yer pockets down there fer sure. I even booby-trapped the damned roof, ‘cause I know ye just love climbin’ on stuff. But nah. An apple.” He took another juicy bite. “Hard te get the suckers, too. Fresh fruit is as hard te come by up here as it musta been for ye back home.”

Therion had forgotten everything he had told Darius when they were together. Things he had never told anyone else, about his childhood, his hometown, his mother… he hadn’t even thought about that bitch in years. And after the betrayal, he hadn't told anyone ever again.

Darius took another bite. “I know ye. I know how te mess with yer head. An’ that’s how ye know how to mess with mine.”

“I've never--”

“Bullshite!” Darius chucked his half-eaten apple at Therion, who just barely deflected it. Darius flew to his feet. Therion flinched, his weight shifting back, and he winced. The pained expression on Therion’s face stopped Darius’ rage. He grinned instead, crossing to lean against the mantel above Therion. 

Therion bit into the apple, ignoring the pain in his jaw. Chewing was difficult. He gave up, staring up at the bulky form looming over him.

“It hurts, don’t it?” Darius sneered.

“Fuck, man,” Therion choked, shaking his head. He dropped the apple to his lap. “If you're going to kill me, just fucking do it already.”

Darius laughed-- genuine laughter, the kind Therion used to hear during their best times together. He snatched up the fireplace poker, busying himself with the flames.

“Can't kill ye,” he said. “We got a bet goin’ on how long yer gonna last. Anyone tries to take matters inta they own hands, and the rest of us just split the pot.”

Therion just stared at him, disbelieving.

“‘Course, I know ye the best, so I got an advantage. I know ye've gone hungry fer a long time before, so that's not gonna get ye. Prolly cheated givin’ ye that apple, but them dumb fuckers won’t know. Ye've lived through being stabbed and fallin’ off a Godsdamned cliff, so injuries ain't gonna get ye. Shite, from what ye told me about yer ma and growin’ up, all ye ever did was deal with gettin’ beat and goin’ hungry.” He looked over at Therion, grinning. “And if ye had the balls ta kill yerself, I figure ye woulda done it a long time ago.” 

Therion's mouth opened, but no words came out.

Darius laughed. “Nah, it's gonna be the cold what does ye in. Ye never could stand it. But not yet. Not gonna tell ye when I picked for me bet, cause then ye'll just live longer on pure spite, ye stubborn fucker.”

Therion just shook his head. He had no words. Darius looked at him, expectantly. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire.

“Well?” Darius prompted, leaving the poker in the fire and straightening. “No snide comeback? No witty insult? No cocky attitude? … or did me men fuck all the arrogance outta ye?”

Therion's eyes shot daggers up at Darius, digging his fingernails into the flesh of the apple in his hands. The taller thief just laughed. 

“I watched ‘em do it.” He grinned. “Go on. Say somethin’.”

Therion knew that no insults could possibly harm Darius at this point. He wasn't about to beg for his life. He didn't have the strength for any cutting sarcasm. He just hurt, inside and out. So he just gave voice to a thought that had been turning over in his mind on dark nights alone, and times when he had been at his lowest.

“I once thought that I loved you,” he said quietly, turning the apple over in his hands.

Darius’ face went through a storm of changes in an instant: from a mocking smile, to utter confusion, to an enraged grimace. He kicked Therion in the side, knocking him to the floor, where he doubled over in pain. The apple rolled free across the floor. Then Darius grabbed him, one hand under his arm and the other around his neck, lifting him and throwing him onto the bed. Before Therion could make his bruised body respond, Darius was on top of him, straddling his waist and wrenching his hands up over his head. He had a rope, and was tying Therion's wrists tightly to the headboard. When he was done with the knots, he yanked on Therion's arms, making sure the ropes were tight.

Darius settled back to look down at him, pinning his lower body beneath his weight. Therion met his eyes, only to be rewarded with a strike to the face. He felt the blood flow from his nose, but with his hands bound, he couldn't do anything about it.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” Darius spat, unbuckling his belt. “I gave ye to all of ‘em so I wouldn't want ye any more! So I could see ‘em all wreck ye, and ruin ye, and use ye like a whore.” He lowered his pants enough to reveal his throbbing erection. “But all it did was make me want ye more.” 

He grabbed Therion's hair to hold his head steady, then rose to his knees to slide the head of his cock along Therion's lips. “And maybe it's the Godsdamned Dragonstones or some shite, but since that Black Market, I can't get off if I'm not thinkin’ about fuckin’ ye. Open yer whore mouth ‘fore I get real mad at ye.”

Therion let his lips fall open, and Darius jammed his length inside, sighing in relief. Therion gagged and struggled around it. He couldn't breathe with his nostrils choked with blood, his throat swollen from the earlier attack. Darius moved against the back of his throat a little, not enough to let him breathe. His wrists strained against the ropes as his vision blurred. Finally, Darius pulled out, laughing, smearing saliva across Therion's cheek. Therion coughed and gasped, dropping his face to one side.

Darius pulled off his tunic, revealing the map of scars across his muscled chest. He shuffled down the bed, positioning himself between Therion's legs, pulling at his ankles to spread them apart. He pressed the head of his cock against the already abused opening.

Therion groaned. “Don't…” he pleaded, uselessly. Darius forced himself inside with a violent thrust. Therion cried out, tears gathering behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. Darius just laughed.

After the first few thrusts, Therion became numb to the pain. He felt his body jerking with each of Darius’ movements, felt his hot breath above him, felt the ropes digging in to his wrists. Darius’ broad, calloused hand was on the side of his face.

“Open yer eyes,” Darius said, his voice astonishingly gentle. Therion's eyelids fluttered open. Darius’ face hovered above his own, icy eyes boring into his. 

“Ye drive me mad, Therion,” Darius said, accenting his words with the movements of his lower body. His fingers moved across Therion's brow, pushing the damp hair back from his face, down around to his chin, and across his lips. They probed inside Therion’s mouth, and there was too much pain for Therion to do anything but let him. Then Darius replaced his fingers with his mouth.

Therion's eyes widened. Darius had never kissed him; he had violently refused to kiss him. But now, those lips were crushed against his, Darius’ tongue working its way into his mouth. The pain was fading. He was back on their first night together, the excitement and the uncertainty and the optimism and the whole Godsdamned world spreading open at their feet, theirs for the taking. He leaned into the kiss as if it were a portal to those days long ago, a way to reset everything like it had been. A way to travel backwards. 

Darius’ cock had found that place inside him. No one else had ever been able to reach it so quickly, so regularly, so effortlessly. The pleasure began to drown the pain. Darius’ hand was on his cock, encouraging the growing arousal there as he moved inside him. Therion had to break away from Darius’ demanding kiss to breathe, their eyes locked. His chest rose and fell as Darius continued to hammer into him. 

Therion saw Darius’ abdominal muscles begin to shake, a sign that he was close. He kept working Therion's length as he shut his eyes, his mouth betraying his pleasure at his climax. His seed mixed with that already left inside Therion from before. But when he finished, he didn't pull away. Still inside, he stroked Therion’s cock with building intensity.

Therion gasped. His battered muscles tightened around Darius as the pressure within him grew. Darius watched him writhe, a smirk on his face. Therion strained against the rope binding his wrists, his back arching in pleasure. When release came, his muscles exhausted, he sunk back into the bed, his arms hanging limp from the headboard. Darius lifted his hand, covered in cum, to Therion's lips. Therion didn’t have to be told. He had done this before, so many times when the situation was so different. He sucked each of Darius’ fingers clean.

“Therion,” Darius said tenderly. Therion met his eyes. Then Darius’ face hardened. “Ye Godsdamned slut!” he yelled, and smacked him across the mouth. “Always fuckin’ askin’ for it!” 

Therion said nothing as Darius rose up off him, muttering angrily, crossing to the fireplace. He hitched up his pants, and stood as a shirtless silhouette before the flames. He nudged the burning logs again with the poker. “Shouldn’ta mad me kiss ye,” he muttered to himself.

Therion squinted in the flickering light at a dark shape on Darius’ back. His eyes had a hard time focusing, but he swore he could make out a tattoo between Darius’ shoulder blades. He hadn’t had any tattoos before, but there it was-- a large black crow, with wings spread.

“Ye know,” Darius said, talking to the fire, “I spend a lot ‘o time thinkin’ what it would be like if I hadn't ever met ye. A lot o’ those jobs… don't think anyone else coulda helped me pull ‘em off.” He looked back at Therion, poker in hand. “I'd'a been less successful,” he said, “but not as fuckin’ crazy.” He whirled, and stepped back towards the bed. The fireplace poker was still in his hand. The tip glowed an angry red.

“Darius,” Therion cautioned, his eyes fixed on it.

“So it's yer fault, really,” Darius said, sweeping his body back over Therion's legs, pinning him to the bed. “If ye wouldn'ta tried to make me want ye that first time, maybe things'd be different.” Darius held the burning metal tip above Therion's bare chest.

“Darius, don't…” Therion's eyes were panicked. 

Darius looked at the poker in his hands. “Shouldn'ta made me kiss ye,” he shrugged. 

Therion screamed as Darius angled the heated end against his flesh, branding a squat red line against his ribs, just below his right nipple. There was a horrible searing sound, and instant, all-encompassing pain. Darius lifted it and make two more angled burns, branching from the first. Therion didn't stop screaming until he heard the poker clatter against the hearth after Darius tossed it, laughing. He looked down at his handiwork. 

“Close as I can make it look like a D,” he said. “We’ll see if ye live long enough to get me whole name on ye.”

Therion was panting, eyes watering, mind dizzy. Darius snatched up a dagger from his table, and Therion struggled, afraid of what parts he might start cutting off of him, but he just used it to saw at the ropes binding him to the headboard. Before Therion could react, Darius grabbed him by the collar, holding his face close.

“Thank that rich bitch for stickin’ this on ye,” he said. “Comes in handy. An’ I think it’s a good look for ye.” Darius laughed, and pulled Therion by the collar off the bed. His knees buckled under him and he went sprawling to the floor. Darius was too solid to be pulled over as he dragged him by the collar him around to the foot of it. There was a large chest there, with a angry iron lock hanging open. Darius lifted the lid, and wrestled Therion inside, giving him a few punches to the side when he tried to struggle. Therion massaged his neck, staring up at him from the cramped space, too battered to do much about it.

“Always thought ye looked better roughed up, too.” Darius slammed the lid closed, shutting Therion in darkness. He banged weakly on the lid above him as he heard the outside lock click into place.


	27. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body, heart, promises, resolve.
> 
> Pick one, or all of the above.

“It’s dawn. He has not returned.”

Primrose opened her eyes, sleepily. She found herself curled in a chair, her cloak tucked around her. She hadn’t lasted long at her post, it seemed. Cyrus stood before her, arms crossed. From the haggard looks of him, he had kept up his pacing all night. Dark circles hung under each of his eyes, his hair was hanging loose from its typical ponytail, and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. 

“Did you not sleep at all?” Primrose asked, stretching her limbs like a waking cat.

“Fucker wouldn’t stop,” the captured thief called from the bed. “Back and forth, back and forth, all Godsdamn night. Coulda at least taken your damn noisy shoes off.”

Cyrus whirled on him. “Tell me where to find him, you miserable creature.”

“Hey, calm down there, fancy pants,” Hudsen said. “Wouldn’t wanna pull a muscle in your page-turnin’ finger or nuthin’.”

“I have spent too long in the company of this insufferable miscreant.” Cyrus narrowed his eyes at the prisoner. “Therion needs us, and you are going to tell us where he has gone.”

Hudsen stared for a bit. “Oh, I see. You're fuckin’ _him._ ” He laughed. “Hey, does that mean the chicks are a thing? ‘Cause I could pay good money to--”

“Primrose,” Cyrus interrupted, “He may need you to help convince him.” 

She unsheathed her dagger. “Finally.”

“Whoa, whoa, murder bitch, hang on.” Hudsen pushed back on the bed, retreating to the headboard. “I can tell you how to find him. Hell, I can tell you lots of things.”

“You lied to us before,” Primrose said. “Therion wouldn’t trust a word you said.”

“Can ya blame me?” The captured thief flashed a cheesy smile. “But I’m fuckin’ sick of laying in this damned inn room. Promise to let me go, and I’ll tell you where you can find ‘em. If they caught him, they’ll have taken him back to the hideout.”

“And why should we trust you this time?” Primrose asked, brandishing her weapon.

“Tell us,” Cyrus said. “And upon Therion’s safe return, I swear that we will free you.”

The thief considered, then nodded. “Let’s make ourselves a deal, fancy pants.”

\--- --- ---

They woke H’aanit, Cyrus refusing to wait even a second longer for them to take their breakfast. Primrose volunteered to stay behind to guard their prisoner, and H’aanit insisted that Linde stay back to help keep her safe. Prim protested a bit, arguing that she could handle herself, but didn’t mind the leopard’s extra protection. The scholar and the huntress bundled up against the early morning chill, and set out to where Hudsen had described the secret entrance to the thieves’ hideout: hidden beneath an old tannery. 

The town was not yet awake, save for a pair of merchants opening their shop, who eyed them suspiciously. The black cloaked thieves, so prevalent the day before, were clearly not early risers. They were still sleeping, in this hideout, Therion trapped in with them.

_YoU wAiTeD ToO LoNg. YoU’vE LoSt HiM aLrEaDy. YoU sHouLd HaVe GoNe LaSt NiGhT. UseLeSs. WeAk. FoOLiSh. YoU LeT HiM diE._

“Enough!” Cyrus shouted to the empty street, crushing his fingers to his temples. He fell to his knees in the snow. H’aanit paused, then unhooked the pouch at her side, proffering a half-empty bottle of herb-of-grace potion.

“Thou needest some more,” she said, dangling it near him.

Cyrus looked up at her, as if just realizing where he was. “The potion doesn’t work.” He slowly rose to his feet, leaning on H’aanit’s offered arm for support. He dusted the snow from his clothing.

“It dost, if thou takest it.” Her mouth was stern.

Cyrus shook his head. “I’ve been taking it. I’ve nearly drank my entire bottle.” He turned to the huntress. “Are you noticing a difference?”

H’aanit nodded. “I seen it only in mine dreams. But when I waken, I know ‘tis but a nightmare… Thou dost not seest a change?”

Cyrus stared ahead at the trodden snow. “I see it all the time. I hear it... all the time.”

“Mayhaps we tellen Susanna.” H’aanit frowned. “She may hath another way.”

Cyrus didn’t respond. He continued down the street, and H’aanit had no choice but to follow.

_Why me and not her?_

_HeH hEh HeH hEh…_

_Don’t just laugh at me, you insidious malcontent. If you’re going to inhabit my mind, the least you can do is relate some semblance of rationality._

_...BeCaUsE iT iS eAsiEr To pReY oN tHe WeAk._

That smile. That smile burned into his mind's eye.

Hudsen had said they would be able to smell the tannery from the main street, with all the substances used to cure the leather. He wasn’t wrong. The stench emanated from a narrow alleyway. H’aanit eyed it, and unshouldered her bow.

“Keepen a watchful eye,” she muttered, starting down the alley. “I hath an ill feeling.” Cyrus nodded, keeping close. 

The alley veered at a right angle to thread around a building with a crumbling roof. As soon as they turned the corner, they spotted three men in black cloaks standing at the other end, holding an assortment of weapons. H’aanit froze, holding out a hand to stop Cyrus. The thugs at the end of the alley reacted, clearly spotting them.

“Runen,” H’aanit said. “Better to fighten out in the open.” She whirled, Cyrus with her, and they fled back down the alley, only to find three other black cloaks barring their exit.

One of the thieves brandished a sword towards them. “These them?”

The man next to him, a hairy mole on his chin, smacked him on the back of the head. “You see anyone else around here looks like they don’t belong? Idiot.”

“Excuse us, gentlemen.” Cyrus held up his hands in front of his chest, relaxing his posture, and smiling genially at the thieves. It seemed to work-- they slowed their pace, slightly lowering their weapons. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.”

“Ain’t no misunderstanding,” Moleface in the center snarled. “You’re the ones we’ve got orders to get outta our town, one way or another.”

“Yeah, like floatin’ you down the river,” the shorter one, a soft-baby faced youth, smirked. “‘Cause dead bodies float. And we’d have killed ya.”

“I surmised as such, thank you,” Cyrus said. H’aanit had squared up next to him, but was hesitant to go for an arrow, lest that encourage the thieves to charge at them immediately. She watched the ones from around the corner crowd in on them, but they had lowered their blades as well when they saw the negotiations. Cyrus might get lucky with his talk. He continued. “I also assume that you lot are minions of the self-aggrandizing crime lord who controls this place, yes?”

“Minions?” 

“What’d he say ‘bout Lord Darius?”

Moleface hushed the other two. “Yeah. And we got strict orders on what to do with ya.”

“Very well,” Cyrus said, throwing up his hands. “We surrender.” 

“Cyrus,” H’aanit hissed. The scholar ignored her.

“Take us to him,” Cyrus said calmly. “We’re all yours. Wouldn’t your retainer prefer to deal with us himself? And then you can certainly take all the credit for delivering us, a much trickier maneuver than simply running us off. Perhaps a promotion is in store for you.”

“Oh, aye, we’ll be takin’ ya to him,” Moleface laughed. “But we’ll not be takin’ ya alive. Get ‘em, boys!” The thieves charged forward.

“No, no, I’m afraid that’s not going to work for me,” Cyrus said. He whirled a hand forward, eyes flashing. “A tempest of ice shall reign!” 

Ice spikes sprouted from the ground, angling sharp points up at the charging thieves, two skidding to a stop, and the other impaling himself before he could. H’aanit slid an arrow from her quiver and turned in the same motion, loosing it into the chest of one of the thugs running up behind her. She fired two more in quick succession. Cyrus threw a hand behind him now, lightning arcing from his fingertips, while H’aanit peppered them with a few more arrows. They fell, and she turned back to chuck her axe at the one before her still advancing on them, attempting to climb the ice barrier. He fell, red blood staining the snow. The third-- the youngest, and clearly the most intelligent of the group-- had turned to run back out the alleyway. H’aanit gave chase, leaping over the ice Cyrus had conjured, wresting her axe from the fallen enemy’s chest.

She was light on her feet, catching the thief before he knew he was upon her, tackling him to the snow. She planted a knee in his chest, notching an arrow, holding it right at his forehead.

“Wait, wait!” The babyfaced thief shrieked in tearful panic. “We just want you outta town! We don’t need to kill ya!”

“T’is a bit late for that,” H’aanit growled.

“But, but the inn!” The thief sputtered. “They sent guys to the inn, too, ‘cause we knew you were there! You go now, you can stop them!”

“Primrose,” H’aanit whispered. She contemplated for a split second whether or not she should loose the bowstring and fire the arrow into the thief’s skull, but decided against it solely because she wouldn't have the time to wrench it back out again-- and that was an arrow wasted. She was on her feet as Cyrus reached her.

“The inn!” she shouted, and did not wait for him before she tore back across town. Cyrus followed as quickly as he was able.

There was a small crowd assembled outside the inn, yelling and shouting, directly beneath the window H’aanit and Primrose had smuggled Linde up through-- the stacks of crates they had piled for her footholds had been toppled, however. As H’aanit came closer, she saw a man with a spear, jabbing it menacingly in the direction of her feline companion. Linde snarled, haunches raised, tail tucked, blood staining her paws and muzzle. H’aanit felt the fear and guilt shoot through her.

“Stoppen this!” H’aanit yelled, running through the crowd. She flung herself between the spear and the snow leopard, spreading her arms to protect the animal. She turned raging eyes on the man who threatened her. “Stayen back! I warne thee!”

“The beast is yours!” the man with the spear yelled. H’aanit slowly recognized one of the innkeeper’s workers. “You brought this monster into our midst! It’s mauled two people!”

“A warrior fighteth back when attacked,” H’aanit snapped. She looked quickly around the crowd. Primrose wasn’t there. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. “All of thee will backen away, for thine own good!”

Cyrus jogged up, gasping for breath. The innkeeper, standing behind the man with the spear, whirled on him.

“You people!” he yelled, and Cyrus straightened. “I warned you that there was trouble in this town, but you all wouldn’t listen! Now I got black cloaks breaking in to my inn, fighting leopards, blood all over everything!” The innkeeper’s eyes were wild. “Lord Darius’ll have my head if he knows his men were killed in my inn, and like he’s gonna believe a freakin’ leopard did it!”

The crowd had turned their attention to the innkeeper berating Cyrus, so H’aanit chanced a look back at Linde. There was a cut on her right paw, but the rest of the blood did not seem to be hers. A body in a black cloak had been dragged away by the crowd, lumped against a side wall. The fight must have taken them out the window, a leap by the leopard knocking the man out, as they had attacked. Linde had done what she had been asked to do-- protect Primrose.

The innkeeper was still shouting at Cyrus, who was simply standing there, catching his breath with mild irritation. “And two more defected out into the snow with that other girl you brought with you! That’s four he’s gonna blame me for!”

H’aanit’s ears perked up at this. “Primrose!” She straightened. Linde moved to her side, and the crowd gasped and stood back. The man with the spear tightened his grip on the shaft.

“I goen after my friend,” H’aanit said crossly. “Where did the villains taketh her? I shalle taken Linde with me, your problem is solved. Letten us through.”

“Oh, you think it’s just that simple, then--” the innkeeper started in on H’aanit at the same time as a few in the crowd motioned south of town. Ignoring the innkeeper, H’aanit waved for the crowd to make a path. Even the man with the spear let her go, leopard at her side, as they charged off in pursuit of Primrose.

“H’aanit!” Cyrus yelled after her. She ignored him. He started after her, eliciting angry shouts from the innkeeper.

H’aanit turned over her shoulder. “Comen!” 

Cyrus shook his head. He looked back towards the center of town. “Therion.”

H’aanit slowed, now that they had put a bit of distance between them and the staring crowd. “They hath taken Primrose.”

Cyrus stared at her. “I simply cannot just... leave.”

“You bet your butt you can’t,” the innkeeper trotted up, red-faced. “For one, I have all your stuff. If you want it back, there is a substantial cleaning fee, and a huge unauthorized pet fee, and probably some compensation for pain and suffering! And if you don’t pay up, that won’t be the last you’ll hear of those black cloaks, let me tell you.”

Cyrus ignored him and continued to insist silently with his eyes. H’aanit hardened her expression.

“If thou dost not comen now, those men will returnen with larger numbers, and they shall kill thee. Then thou shalt not be of any help to anyone.” H'aanit set her jaw. “We goen after Primrose. We catchen that thief. We maken him taketh us to Therion.”

“Hello?” the innkeeper insisted. “Are you hearing me? Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Go.” Cyrus nodded to her. “I’ll follow, we’ll regroup. After I handle things here.” He shot an irritated glance at the innkeeper. 

H’aanit nodded, and ran off in pursuit of the escaped thieves.

_LoSt AnOtHeR oNe, DiD yOu? WoULdN’t HaVe ExPeCtEd AnYtHiNg LeSs._

\--- --- ---

Therion wasn’t sure what woke him first-- the echoes of pain, or the smell. _Someone_ had pissed in the chest he was locked in. Then he realized. 

Groaning, he reached up to press against the lid of the box, his shoulders and elbows screaming out their stiffness. The chest was still locked tight. He had been stuck in the same position, and his injuries from before had transformed from very specific, stabbing pains to a generalized ache everywhere in his battered body. 

It was completely dark. He had no way of knowing what time it was, or how long he had slept-- maybe a few hours, maybe all night. He shivered, but realized that he was much warmer in here than he would have been out in the main hall. There was that beautiful fireplace in here, and its heat was trapped inside the small room. Then he remembered Darius’ talk about the bet, about how he was going to die. It was just like him to cheat. _The night he leaves me out there is the night he picked,_ Therion realized, with a morbid smirk. _Fuck that. I_ am _going to live longer out of spite._ Darius had known that. Darius had known… a lot of things. The conversation replayed itself in his mind, the parts he could remember. Pain and anger had clouded a lot of it. Maybe there had been something there… something he could use against him. Something that would let him escape.

He awoke again-- not even aware of falling asleep-- when the world started shaking. The chest was being roughly lifted and carried. Voices could be heard outside, but not clearly enough to make out what they were saying. Therion rattled against the sides, banging and shouting. The men carrying the box slapped the top of it, laughing. They dropped it to the ground, where it rocked for a little before settling, Therion bracing himself against the walls of the tiny prison. He heard the clicking of the lock outside, and the lid of the chest opened.

Therion looked up at the ring of grinning thieves leering down at him. The fear was like a heavy weight on his chest. Hands reached down for him, grabbing at his already bruised arms and legs, hauling him upwards. Therion struggled and cursed, but his voice was weak and raspy. He was able to jerk one of his arms out of a thief’s grasp and fell sideways, twisting around as he dropped to the floor, a sudden rush of dizziness overtaking him. He hadn’t eaten since the day before yesterday. In his lightheadedness, the thieves were able to pin him to the ground, hooking a rope through his collar and effectively leashing him.

The thugs eased up a little, testing his reaction. Therion didn’t move. Moving made everything hurt more. One thief stood before him and tugged on the rope to get his attention, pulling him up to his hands and knees, but planting a boot on his shoulder to keep him from rising further. Therion glared up at him.

“You’re gonna be a good girl, now aren’t ya?” The thief grinned down at him, his taunt sparking laughter from the others. One of the men behind him smacked his ass, and he flinched. The thief in front of him reached down to grab his chin, forcing him to look up at him.

Therion’s first instinct was to bite him. He was a cornered animal, beaten and abandoned, and he wanted nothing more than to fight back, to avenge the pain he was in. He nearly did it, nothing but Darius’ warning holding him back. He wanted to keep his teeth.

“Well? I need an answer,” the thug prompted.

“Fuck you,” Therion growled. The blows were upon him before he finished the last syllable. They yanked him up from the ground, holding him to punch him in the stomach, not letting him even double over to protect himself. He went limp as they tossed him between them, laughing and jeering. He finally crashed to the ground once again, feeling the bruises forming on his bruises.

Someone tugged on his leash again, and when he looked up, he saw this thief had undone his pants and was stroking his cock. He slapped the head against Therion’s cheek until he opened his mouth to take it.

Last night had been frantic, violent, desperate. This now was just constant degradation. He almost preferred his earlier treatment-- everything had happened too fast, all at once, for his body and mind to really process every violation and humiliation. Now, he was painfully aware of the feeling, and taste, and smell, of every one of the thieves who pulled him over on the leash and forced a cock into his mouth. He was aware of those who came up behind him, grabbing his ass, spreading him open, jamming their way inside of him. He was aware of the grunts and moans they made as they used him. He was pressed against the ground, the walls, the overturned pews; pulled up on top of them, crushed under them; slapped and shoved, jabbed and twisted, squeezed and hit. His body no longer belonged to him. He was spit on, saliva mixing with the cum they left on his face, and chest, and back. A thug smacked his face until he angled it upwards and opened his mouth to let the thief pour warm, stale beer over him. Therion choked, eyes closed, while the others laughed. Another liquid hit him in the face, too warm to be beer. Therion didn’t have any shame left to feel. He let his body get passed around, thrown down, violated again and again, and let his mind wander. 

Daylight streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting colorful pictures of the twelve Gods onto the dingy floor of the old church, and on him. There was a patch of red light across his arm as he braced himself on all fours, ignoring whatever was happening to him below his waist. He followed the light up to see the crimson cloth whirling around Sealtige, the Lady of Grace, clad much more modestly than in other interpretations. Had she not been blonde, she would have looked just like Primrose. He had told her to only worry if he hadn’t returned by morning. Was she worried? Were they searching for him? _They’d never make it,_ he thought guiltily. _There’s too many of them. They would be walking into a slaughter._

Unknown to Therion, Darius sat in the shadows on the edge of the hall, perched on a table, watching. His face was hard and emotionless. He glanced down occasionally at the knife in his hand, as he curved it beneath the skin of one of the Riverlands apples, shaving it off in one long curl.

A thief approached him-- the babyfaced one who had H’aanit’s arrow to his forehead earlier. “Lord Darius!” He had urgency in his voice, still rattled.

Darius ignored him, glancing down at his apple for only a moment before looking back up at Therion. 

“Uh, Lord Darius,” the thief tried again. “Excuse me, sir?”

“What?!” Darius exploded, and the thief flinched backwards.

“The… uh… the outsiders, sir.”

“Ye killed ‘em?” Darius turned his eyes back out to the hall.

“Not… not exactly.”

Darius’ eyes burned at his henchman.

“But! But they’re gone!” To the thief’s relief, Darius looked away. “They left town, milord. But… uh… it wasn’t an easy thing. We lost some men. A… bunch of men.”

“But they’re gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then who fuckin’ cares? Make sure they don’t come back. Get some eyes on the town gates.”

“I… er…”

Darius glared back at him. “Ye got somethin’ else te say?”

“N… no, Lord Darius.”

“Good. Get the fuck outta me sight.” 

The thief backed away quickly, but Darius hardly noticed. He had sliced through the last bit of peel on his apple, and the curl of skin fell to the floor. He watched Therion as he sunk his teeth into the naked fruit.

\--- --- ---

Primrose woke up to the throbbing pain in her skull. She winced, and tried to open her eyes, but realized that they were-- she just couldn’t see anything through the blindfold. She was lying on her side, her wrists bound behind her, and from the chill on her skin, she was no longer in the well-insulated inn room. Things came back to her in flashes: the black cloaked thieves bursting through the door-- it had been locked, they had gotten a key-- Linde leaping into action, she herself flinging a dark spell at them before someone hit her over the head from behind, and she went down hard. She wished her hands were free only to check for the lump she knew must be growing there. Hazily, through the waves of pain, she started to hear the voices.

“The hell we take her out here for?” one voice asked. “It’s fuckin’ cold. Why’d we not just go back to the hideout?”

“An’ share her with the rest of them?” This voice she recognized as Hudsen. “Why’d we do that, when we can just have her to ourselves out here?” He laughed, and Primrose felt her stomach turn.

“She even alive?” the first voice asked. “You bashed her one pretty good.”

“Nah, she’s breathin’,” Hudsen said. “I want her to wake up, though. Always more fun when they’re fightin’.”

Primrose resolved to keep her body still. The longer they thought she was unconscious, the better.

\--- --- ---

H’aanit had never been so thankful for freshly fallen snow. Once she and Linde left the town gates, the tracks were easy to follow. Two sets of male footprints, moving quickly, one sunk in more than the other, as if he carried more weight-- likely the body of the dancer. She tried to reassure herself that they wouldn’t have taken her if they had killed her.

The tracks veered out away from the main path, through some sparse trees, over some rolling hills. Then, to her surprise, a third set of tracks joined them, approaching from the opposite direction. H’aanit paused. These appeared male, too-- coming from the south, but meeting with those of the kidnappers and continuing on with them. The huntress followed the trail with her eyes as it led down a hillside, directly to a small, dilapidated cabin. A black figure, too distant to discern, was approaching the cabin by following the tracks. Apprehensive, H’aanit and Linde hugged the cover of the trees as they made their way closer.

\--- --- ---

“Take the blindfold off, see if she’s awake.”

“We gotta keep it on, stupid, then she can’t see the escape.”

“She’s got pretty eyes, though.”

“Bet she’s got pretty everything.”

Hands were grabbing at her now, and Primrose tried her best to remain passive, hoping they would lose interest if they thought she was still unconscious. One of them grabbed her hair right above where she had been hit, and before she could stop herself, she winced and cried out.

“Ahaha! She is awake!”

“Told ya. It’ll be so much better to just have her to ourselves.”

“Wait, wait!” Primrose called, wriggling away from their insistent hands. She tried to steady her voice. “Let’s have a business discussion, gentlemen. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Don’t trust her,” Hudsen said. “She fooled me once already.”

“Yeah, and I like the fight,” the other one said. “It’s like stealin’.”

“Stealin’ pussy,” Hudsen laughed. The hands were on her again.

There was a knocking sound from behind them, and both attackers froze. Primrose angled herself away.

“The fuck is that?” Hudsen asked. “You tell the others we were comin’ here?”

“Hell no,” the second thief said. “Think it’s her people?”

“They ‘bout to get messed up if it is,” Hudsen said. Primrose could hear his footfalls as he crossed to the door. She heard it open, and his voice again. “Who the hell are you?”

“He’s that guy!” the second thief said, and Primrose felt him shift to his feet beside her.

“Who?”

“Darius’ boss.”

“The Stillsnow guy? With the bird on his arm?” 

“Nah, the guy above him. Hey man, what--”

The second thief was cut off by a cry of pain from Hudsen, and Primrose heard a body hit the floor. The newcomer still hadn’t said anything.

“Look, man, we’re sorry,” the second thief pleaded. “We weren’t defecting, honest. You want the girl? You can have the girl. Please, have a heart.”

“Step away from her,” the newcomer said, his voice low and smooth. 

“Sure, man, whatever you want, I--” The thief’s words were cut off with a groan of agony. Primrose heard his body fall very close to her. She tensed, backing against the wall, trying to control her breathing. He was one of them. A crow. An Obsidian. And one _higher_ than Rufus in stillsnow. She felt fingers on her chin. She froze.

The newcomer angled her face up towards him, and she felt him looking at her, though she could see nothing through the blindfold. Words caught in her throat. She felt something against her neck-- the uncompromising edge of a blade, wet with the thieves’ blood.

“Primrose,” the newcomer whispered, and she felt her veins turn to ice. His voice was sickeningly soft. “My, how beautiful you have grown. Such a tragedy. Such a waste.”

“Droppen thy weapon.” It was H’aanit’s voice, firm and sure, and Primrose’s heart leapt. She heard Linde’s low growl. “I shalle pierce thee through if thou dost not steppen away.”

Miraculously, the blade withdrew from her neck. Primrose let herself breathe again.

“Huntress,” the newcomer said. “I have no quarrel with you. Take her. Keep her. Until it is time for the final act.” 

Primrose felt a hand gripping the back of her clothes, pulling her up to her feet, pushing her. She tumbled forward into H’aanit’s arms, falling against her chest. They both sank to the ground at the collision, and Primrose felt H’aanit’s hands struggling with the blindfold. The first thing she saw was the huntress’ cool green eyes. Primrose couldn’t help but smile in thankful relief. Then she glanced around the cabin, empty save for them, Linde, and two bleeding corpses.

“Where’d he go?” she asked.

“He runneth off. Like the coward he be.” H’aanit hugged Primrose close.

“They said he was a crow,” she said. “What did he look like?”

H’aanit shook her head. “He woren a wide black hat, a tall collar, a black cloak. I coulde not seen his face. Turnen. I shalle free thy hands.”

Primrose turned, staring out into the snow. Any trace of the man had vanished. 

“He’s the one who killed my father.” As soon as she said it, she was fully convinced. _He saved me from the thieves… only to kill me himself?_

“He was right there!” She shouted, angry with herself. She turned to H’aanit. “Why couldn’t I _do_ anything?”

\--- --- ---

Therion fell, shaking and dripping, to the rug in front of Darius’ fire. After what may have been hours, maybe days of using his body, he had been snatched up by two thieves like before. The henchmen had fully submerged him in a barrel of melted snow this time, holding him under until his muscles painfully convulsed and his nose filled with water. They had bound his hands in front of him, and he didn’t have the strength to push himself off the side. He had started to fade away when they pulled him out, and he was still coughing as they threw him back into Darius’ room. He was grateful once more for the warmth, but he lacked the strength even to push himself up to his knees. He just lay there, eyes closed, still shivering.

“Yer not dead.” Darius’ voice grated on his battered mind. He prodded his shoulder with a toe of his boot. “Get yerself up.”

Therion didn’t move. He didn’t respond. Darius grabbed him beneath the arms, pulling him up, propping him against the side of the bed. Therion winced as his weight shifted. His chin sank to his chest. Only his eyes responded, glaring up at Darius. He was shirtless and barefoot in the warmth of the roaring fire. The burn on Therion’s ribs twinged in response to the heat.

Darius grinned at him, moving to his bedside table. He picked up a mug of ale, then settled down on top of the bed next to Therion. He held it down to him. Therion just stared.

“It’s not poisoned, either,” he said, taking a sip to prove it, then offered it again. Therion wanted to refuse, on principle of pride, but he was so damn thirsty. He took the mug with his shaking fingers, reaching out with both of his bound hands, almost dropping it from the unexpected weight. 

He drank. It was cool, it was strangely delicious, and it only burned a little on his raw throat. After his first sip, he sank his head back against the bed, sighing. He heard a liquid sloshing above him, and saw Darius finish a long swig from an amber-colored bottle. 

“They’re not comin’ fer ye,” Darius said, staring at the fire. He shook the mostly-empty bottle before taking another drink. “In case ye were wonderin’.”

Therion looked up at him, confused. It hit him in a wave. _Cyrus… he wasn’t…_ Panicked and angry words came to his mouth all in a rush, and only a formless cry escaped his lips.

Darius laughed. “Run ‘em straight outta town. Me men got orders to kill ‘em on sight if they come back.”

_Not dead._ Therion let his shoulders relax. He buried his face in the beer, hoping to calm his nerves. On his empty stomach, the alcohol would hit him quick.

“And they’ve gone.” Darius took another swig from his bottle. “They’ve left ye.”

_Just like everyone always does._

“But ye still got me.” He laughed loudly. He was drunk.

The silence settled in. Therion’s mind was too muddled. He’d start a thought, but then the pain would distract him, and he couldn’t finish it. It wasn’t worth the effort to try to fight through it. He took another long drink of beer.

“Ye got nuthin’ ta say?!” Darius fumed, rising to his feet. “That’s not how it works! That’s not...” 

Therion stared up at him. There was no way he was going to give him what he wanted. Not after this. Not after everything. He’d have to force it out of him. Not breaking eye contact, he finished his beer.

Darius bent down and slapped the mug out of his hands, sending it smashing against the far wall. Therion just held on to his fingers. They were still shaking, and he was pretty sure one was broken-- stepped on, or something, he didn’t really remember. He met Darius’ gaze, unflinching, smoldering. Darius smacked at him again, this time connecting with his face. The momentum sent him tipping over, and he caught himself shakily on his hands, wincing. Darius leered down at him, but Therion just let his eyes close.

“Therion.” Darius’ voice sounded hollow. He moved towards him. “Get up.” 

Therion didn’t move. Darius lifted him beneath his arms, while Therion’s feet struggled to support him from beneath. Darius carried him backwards, until they both sank down onto the bed. Therion could barely hold himself up. Darius pulled him over his lap, lifting his leg so that Therion straddled him. Therion had to place his bound hands on Darius’ bare chest for balance, while Darius held his shoulders. Darius sought his eyes. The silence dragged on.

Finally, Therion coughed, his chin sinking to his chest. “Just do whatever the fuck you’re going to do to me. I don’t give a shit. Just get on with it so you can leave me the fuck alone.”

Darius frowned. “Te throw ye back out there with that lot?”

Therion had enough left in him for a spark of anger. “You, them, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

Something rippled in Darius’ expression. A quiver in his cheek, an uncertainty of his jaw. His mouth fell open. His voice was shaky. “I fucked up, Therion.” He breathed in sharply. “I fucked up bad.”

If Therion hadn’t known better, he would have thought Darius on the verge of tears. 

“I’m not a Godsdamned faggot, alright?” Darius said, shaking his head. “I like tits. I like cunts. I don’t wanna fuck men. Ye get me?” Darius’ face searched desperately for affirmation. Therion just nodded, trying to figure out where this was going. His mind couldn’t handle it.

“I fuck girls. But when I do, I can’t stop thinkin’ about ye. Wantin’ it to be ye instead. I can’t…” Darius’ voice broke, and he gripped Therion’s shoulders with intensity. “I don’t want no one else. I thought if I killed ye, it would stop. I could go on. And it did. But then ye show up again, and now here…”

Darius shook his head, desperation in his voice.

“Ye said... ye loved me,” he said quietly, dropping his eyes.

Therion found his voice from deep within his chest. “I honestly thought I did.” 

Darius’ voice was faint. “Why… why couldn’t we…”

As Darius watched, Therion lifted his bound hands from his chest, raising them together to Darius’ face. He took his chin in his hands, purple-splotched fingers creeping up the stubble-covered cheeks. He saw that look in Darius’ eyes, the one he always had tried to read so much in to. Tried to mistake for affection.

_If only this had been then, and not now._

Darius leaned in. Therion dropped his face, and the kiss landed on the crown of his head.

“I fucked up,” Darius repeated.

“Yeah,” Therion said, raising his eyes. The fire was back. “Yeah, you did.”

Darius stared at him, nostrils flaring in anger. Therion closed his eyes, bracing himself for the hit he knew was coming. But when Darius touched him, his fingers were gentle, sliding down the side of his face, his shoulder, and down his back. His touch left only for Darius to unbuckle his pants and free his aching arousal, before reaching back to grab Therion’s ass, pulling him forward onto it. His worn-out, overused body offered no resistance. Therion’s breath caught in his throat as he stifled the cry of pain, not wanting to give Darius the satisfaction. His face betrayed him.

Darius took Therion’s elbows, raising his arms up and hooking them over his neck. With Therion’s wrists bound, he couldn’t move them from the embrace Darius locked him in. Darius moved within him slowly, grabbing handfuls of his ass to maneuver him. Therion, grimacing, sank his forehead against Darius’ broad shoulder, fighting back gasps of pain.

Darius’ hands were on his back, his shoulders, his ass, and even as he moved inside him, hitting that place he always could, Therion’s mind was elsewhere. Not back in those days when they were partners, not all those times they had spent their drunken nights together, because none of those had been like this. 

His thoughts were of someone else. How his voice flowed like a song, especially when he was whispering to him at night. How his eyes always looked like there was some secret hidden behind them, especially when he smiled that trickster smile of his. How his hands, with long, deft fingers, and usually with an inkstain on the middle one, always brought tingling warmth to his sink whenever he touched him. How he felt when they just lay next to each other, like time and obligations had stopped, and they just had each other, and that was all that really mattered, anyway. How he always put his all into everything he did, how intense his attention was, how amazing it felt to be the object of that attention.

_He’s gone. He’s left you._

Therion sank his face into Darius’ thick neck, wondering if he would feel the tears if he let them come.

Darius’ hands were holding his head and his shoulders now. His breathing was heavy, but lessening. Therion assumed he had finished, but honestly hadn’t noticed. He raised his head. Darius’ eyes were closed. He was falling asleep, still inside Therion, the rope binding his hands pinned beneath. Therion tugged at it, wondering if there was enough give to loop around that thick neck-- to strangle the life out of Darius.

_And then what? Fight past that room, when I can hardly stand? Wander out naked into the snow, and just hope?_

Life hated him too much to grant him hope.

_He’s left you._

\--- --- ---

H’aanit prodded at the fire with a stick while she absently scratched the scruff of Linde’s neck. She hoped she had gathered enough firewood. She knew Cyrus could keep a fire burning without much fuel, using magical energy instead, since she’d seen him do it before-- but she didn’t want to ask. He was in a rough enough state already.

The innkeeper had let him know, on no uncertain terms, that none of them were allowed back within the town gates. The black cloaks would be watching for them, to kill them on sight. They had holed up in the abandoned cabin, and even though part of the roof had collapsed, the furniture had all been looted or burned, and there were bloodstains on the floor, it offered the greatest promise of protection from the elements. There was just one large room, a hearth against one wall, and the group huddled around it as the sky darkened outside. 

Cyrus rose, walking from the warmth of the fire to the cold end of the cabin room by the door. He stopped, glanced through the hole in the roof at the gathering twilight, then turned to pace back to the fire, his hands crossed tightly across his chest. Primrose stood, and as he approached her, stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He jolted at the touch, as if he hadn’t even realized she was there.

"You have got to stop,” she said. “You're making me crazy, and I'm worried about you."

"I'm worried about Therion," Cyrus shot back. “Two days, Primrose. Over forty-eight hours.”

"What can we do?” Primrose tugged her cloak more tightly around her. “We can't be in that town long before those men find us and chase us out again, and I'm sure they've warned everyone against us, even the regular folk."

"Disguises, mayhaps?" H'aanit offered.

Primrose shook her head. "I don't think a disguise will work now that they know us. And no offense, but as soon as one of you starts talking, they’ll know exactly who we are. Plus, we still don't know where to go to find him."

"I can locate him," Cyrus said.

"How are you going to go around asking people?” Primrose shook her head. “The innkeeper was probably--"

Cyrus waved a hand to cut her off. "A spell exists," he said, diving for his pack and sorting through it.

"Why didst thou not usen it before?" H'aanit accused.

Cyrus retrieved the abridged copy of _From the Far Reaches of Hell_ from his things. "Because I was terrified of the cost." His fingers moved slowly over the cover before he flipped open the pages.

"Cyrus," Primrose said uneasily, "are you sure you should be--"

"I'm not left with much of a choice, now am I? Sit around and pray to imaginary gods that things all work out?" He scoffed.

"Thou dost not believen in the Gods, either," H'aanit said.

"I'm a man of science, not fairy tales." Cyrus' eyes scanned the pages of runic incantations for the one he sought.

"Thou dost magic."

"All science is magic to those who do not understand." Cyrus found his page, tracing a finger over the lines. "I understand this."

"You called that forbidden magic," Primrose said, a steady hand on his shoulder. "Darker than dark magic."

"Blood magic and necromancy," Cyrus muttered. "Costly. But powerful. Desperate times, as they say."

"When I asked you about it," Primrose began cautiously, "you said you couldn't perform it without a blood crystal. Made from sacrificing living beings."

"That’s true. One cannot."

"So how, exactly, does that help us?"

Cyrus met her eyes, but said nothing.

Primrose pulled back her hand from him. "You didn't."

" _I_ didn't," Cyrus said, reaching for his pack once more. "Yvon did. She must have stolen it, must have hidden it in my things while I was distracted."

He pulled out a small white cloth-- it looked like a ladies' handkerchief-- wrapped around an object no bigger than his palm, and tied into a bundle with a satin lavender bow. When he tugged on the knot, it opened, revealing a deep red gemstone that shone ominously in the firelight. He held it up between the fingers of his other hand, letting the handkerchief drop, along with the folded parchment that sat beneath the gem. Primrose snatched it up, while Cyrus appraised the clarity of the stone. H’aanit crouched closer, curious, Linde at her side.

The dancer opened the note, written in a minute, delicate hand. It began with a "Dearest Professor, love of my life," and didn't get any lighter from there. She looked to the signature first: "Yours eternally, Therese." Her eyes scanned the page, eyebrows raising at the vividly-detailed activities the author envisioned the two of them engaging in. The girl was well-read, it seemed, as there were a lot of colorful metaphors for certain parts of the bodies she described and their lewd interactions, and Primrose wasn't sure she had ever seen the phrase "flower of my maidenhead" used earnestly before.

The paper was suddenly snatched from her hands by Cyrus, wearing a stern glare.

"Have you read that?" Primrose asked, eyebrow arched. Cyrus responded by tossing the love letter into the fire, where it quickly curled and blackened.

"Art thou certain of this?" H'aanit asked, peering at the dark red gem.

"Provide me with another option," Cyrus said. He slid the gemstone into his pocket. "We don't have time. It may be already--" He shook his head, dismissing the thought. 

He fished a piece of charcoal from the edge of the fire, kicking debris and dead leaves from an open patch on the floor. He knelt on the warped floorboards with the charcoal in one hand, the forbidden tome in the other. H’aanit and Primrose stood together, watching, as he drew a careful pentagram with a circle around it. He precisely copied the runes from the tome, inscribing them into the figure on the floor, muttering to himself about cardinal directions, leylines, and magnetic resonances. When he finished, he studied his work for a while, comparing it to the pages in his hand, then nodded. He dropped the charcoal to set the blood crystal in the center of the figure. Then he returned to his pack and pulled out Therion’s purple scarf, looping it over his shoulders.

"It is necessary to have an object that has been touched by your subject in the last seventy-two hours," he explained. "The spell grants knowledge of the current locations of everyone who has touched said object in that time period. Supposed to be used to track one’s enemies, or somesuch."

He knelt back down by his circle and studied it again.

"Primrose, may I borrow your dagger?"

The dancer furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"It's blood magic," Cyrus explained tiredly. "It requires blood."

Primrose stared at him when he turned to her.

"Don't worry,” he said dismissively, “I'm going to use mine."

"Cyrus..."

"It won't kill me." He held out his hand, insistent. She sighed and unsheathed it from her skirt. "...Unless, of course, I perform it incorrectly."

Primrose froze in her motion of handing him the weapon, but he snatched it from her. 

"I won't. I rarely make mistakes." He held the blade in his left hand while he rolled up the sleeve of that arm. 

"Rarely is not never," Primrose cautioned.

"I'm closer to perfection than most." Cyrus flashed her a teasing grin, but she saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

Primrose shook her head. “There has to be another way. You can’t--”

"I have lost," he began, definitively silencing her, "so much already.” He stared down at the runic circle. “I have no occupation, I have no residence, I have no family. I have lost the esteem and respect of my former colleagues. I have lost any claim to morality or self-respect that I may once have held. I may be losing my mind to this ridiculous curse. I have _nothing_ left." He stopped, fixed his eyes on hers. "I will not lose him."

Primrose swallowed hard, and H’aanit hardened her jaw, curling an arm around her for comfort.

Cyrus scanned the tome once more, giving voice to the words he read. A low, ominous chant, with foreign, dark words. He read through it twice before he turned to the marks on the floor, circling his left hand around the runes, his voice taking on a low intonation that made Primrose shiver. He held her blade against his bare wrist, and she held her breath.

Without a hint of pain in his voice, Cyrus sliced a V in the flesh of his wrist. He angled his hand so the bright red blood ran down his palm, dripping from his index and middle fingers. He traced around the runes, letting at least a drop fall against each of the marks. As he did, they began glowing with an unearthly light. Primrose and H’aanit took a step backwards, collectively.

Cyrus dropped the dagger by his feet and clutched the scarf with his right hand. He was still chanting, his eyes closed. His voice took on an unnatural quality, as if someone else was chanting with him-- but there was no one else there.

The markings on the floor glowed brighter, the rest of the cabin seeming darker by contrast, and Cyrus' voice grew louder, until he was practically shouting. Primrose squeezed close to H'aanit.

“Should… should we stop him?” she whispered.

"I doth not want to touchen him."

Cyrus, still chanting, drew his bloody hand upwards, and touched his two wet fingers to his left temple, then his right, leaving two little fingerswipes of red blood on the side of each eye. His voice cut out suddenly. The runic circle on the floor darkened, returning to simple charcoal scratchings. He was quiet for a long time, hand held aloft before his face. The blood still flowed from the cut in his wrist, trailing down his forearm. 

"...Cyrus?" Primrose ventured.

The scholar's eyes snapped open. White completely encircled his brown irises, and he stared at Primrose, alert and intense. She almost jumped backwards.

"North of town," he said, his voice dark.

"T’is an old cathedral there," H'aanit said.

Primrose was afraid to ask. "Is he... can you tell if he's alive?"

Cyrus stared ahead, unblinking. "The spell doesn't provide that information."

"We hath not the time to wasten, then." H'aanit pulled a pouch from her pack-- a simple medical kit-- and fished out a bandage for Cyrus' forearm, before readying herself for travel. “Though we should waiten for full darkness, lest we are spied.”

The scholar struggled one-handed with the bandage for a bit before Primrose took over, wetting Therese's discarded handkerchief from her water flask to clean off the blood. She went for the marks around Cyrus' eyes, but he pulled away.

"Leave it,” he said. “I may lose sight of him if you wash it off.”

"You look like a madman." She frowned.

"As I had said. The magic is costly."


	28. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why can't I just write nice things?
> 
> Technically the end of Therion's Chapter 4. Not really over yet, though.

Therion woke in the middle of the night, breathing hard and slick with sweat. _Just a nightmare, just a nightmare…_ Then he realized he was still lying with Darius, arms stuck around him with ropes biting into his wrists, and the inescapable throb of dull pain over his entire body. He shut his eyes again. Maybe he could wake up for real this time, if he tried hard enough. Though with his luck, he’d be back in that prison cell with a stab wound in his side, waiting for the hangman.

Darius stirred against him, and Therion tried to pretend he was asleep. He wasn’t sure if he was still drunk, or if enough time had passed that he had sobered up. He didn’t know what would be the better option. He felt Darius’ hands on his hip, turning him over on his back, tugging his hands up over his head. He chanced to look up, watching Darius tie his hands back to the headboard again, straddling his waist. Darius glanced down at him, and he tensed. 

“G’mornin’.” Darius grinned down at him. Therion flinched when his hands ran down his chest, tracing over the letter he had branded over his ribs. Therion had been hoping he had forgotten about it. 

“Actually, don’t think it’s mornin’ yet,” Darius said, hands roving over Therion’s body. “We got some time ‘fore they’ll be askin’ for ye.” He shifted himself down between Therion’s legs, forcing his knees apart. He pushed a finger inside him, watching Therion’s grimacing reaction, the tensing of his battered body, before shoving himself inside. _Just let him do it. Don’t make it worse._

Darius moved slowly, almost lazily within him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, wistful.

“Remember when we talked about pullin’ some big job an’ usin’ the money ta get ourselves a ship? Sail around, doin’ what we please, takin’ what we want?”

Therion opened his eyes. Darius’ were boring into his. “D'ye remember that?”

Of course he remembered. It had been his idea. He just nodded, teeth gritted, hands clenched into fists from the pain.

“I got a crew,” Darius said. “Them assholes out there. An’ after I get paid off for this Dragonstone job, I can get a ship.”

“That's… ugh… Great. Really happy for you,” Therion said dryly.

“For us.” Darius said.

What he would have given to hear that years before, while they were still partners. While he still trusted. What he might have endured then, just to have that awaiting him at the end of it.

But that was the past. You only walk one way down the path of life.

Therion glared up at him. “Why would you think I still want that? After everything.”

Darius laughed. “‘Cause the thievin’s too good. Ye know neither one of us is even half as good as both of us. Ye know that. So ye'll forgive me. Ye always do. ‘Cause we’re partners.”

Therion’s eyes widened in realization. He always had. Every time Darius had hurt him, every time he had made him feel worthless, every time he took him for granted, every time he had used the things Therion had told him as ammunition against him… he had forgotten the pain and the insults. Because the thieving was that good. Because the sex was that good. Because Darius had stuck around the longest. Because even when Darius used people up and pushed them away, Therion was the only one stupid or lonely or desperate enough to stick around. 

As he had sat rotting in that jail cell years ago, waiting for the hangman, even after being stabbed and thrown off a cliff-- he would have gone back with Darius if he had come busting in making the offer. He knew he would have.

But that was then. 

“Fuck you, Darius.”

He stopped moving within him. “What?”

“You heard me,” Therion growled. “Fuck. You. Fucking kill me if that's what you want, but you're probably too chickenshit to even do that.”

Therion was vaguely aware he was playing with fire-- deadly, explosive fire, from which there was nowhere for him to hide-- but he couldn't make himself stop.

“You're just waiting for your thugs or the cold to do it for you, ‘cause you're too much of a little bitch to go through with it yourself. Even before, you couldn't do it. You had your lackey do it in Wellspring, or you just hoped the fall would do it back then. You can't kill me. You're fucking in love with me, and you can't get over it.” 

Darius pulled away from him, enraged. “Ye want me ta fuckin’ kill ye then?!”

“Go ahead!” Therion screamed, baiting the bear. “Go right ahead and prove me wrong. You can't fucking do it!”

Darius’ fist came at him, but he ducked his head under his arm before it connected with his face. He tried to kick Darius away, but his weight pinned his hips to the bed. Instead, he curled himself up as the blows came down on his back, his ribs, his shoulders. He was pretty sure he felt something snap. The attack stopped, Darius huffing for breath. Therion dared to look up at him. This was a mistake. Darius’ hands came down for his neck.

He came up under the collar, so even that offered no protection as Darius’ fingers encircled Therion’s neck. He struggled to no avail, Darius’ thumbs digging into his throat, cutting off his airway. The edges of his vision grew hazy, and he could feel his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. His last thought, before blackness took him, was that it was unfortunate that the last face he saw would be Darius’. He closed his eyes, and searched his memory for a more pleasant one, but with the lack of oxygen, his brain didn’t seem to work right.

…

…

...

He coughed, cold hitting him in a rush. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or if it was just that dark. Through the blood pounding in his ears, he heard a rattle of chains, and angry, heavy footfalls. He brought his hands to his burning neck as he struggled for breath. He felt where the chain had been looped through the collar again.

It was still night. The thieves were still asleep. Darius had chained him up and walked off, leaving him to the chill of the night.

_Because he can’t fucking do it,_ Therion thought, with the weakest of smiles. He was already shivering uncontrollably.

He shuffled himself against the altar, curling himself up in a ball. He held his hands in front of him-- Darius had sawed through the ropes-- and tried to breathe. 

He could conjure only the tiniest, most pitiful flame with the last of his energy. It burnt out quickly.

He had no way to know how many hours he had to endure before sunrise.

\--- --- ---

He woke when the room shook. It was still dark, but Darius’ men were waking from their sleep in agitation and confusion. Therion, too stiff from cold and soreness, could do little but raise his head. He could only hear small snippets of conversation.

“The cellar--”

“Get your damn boots on--”

“Who the fuck is on watch right now?”

“Where’s my sword?”

“‘Bout to get fucked up, thinkin’ they can come in here--”

“--after the treasure! The shit we rightfully stole!”

The room shook again, and there was the distinct smell of smoke.

Darius’ voice could be heard over the gathering confusion. “Ye idiots! Git yer asses out there! They’re after our shite!”

Therion pressed his back against the altar, hoping Darius wouldn’t see him and might forget about him. Then, as the thieves charged past, hollering out war cries, ready to meet the intruders in their treasure room, thoughts burbled through his scattered mind. _If Darius forgets about me to save his treasure… and the church is on fire…_ He tugged on the chains on his neck, which held fast, his stomach sinking. He scrambled to the edge of altar, peering around. A thief hurled round something down the steps from the cellar corridor, and it burst on impact. A firebomb. Black smoke billowed up from the stairwell. Darius was nowhere to be found. Therion tugged frantically at the chains.

There came a chorus of screams, and from out of the smoke, the body of a beast leaped forth, snarling, growling, sinking sharp teeth into the throat of the nearest thug, dropping the body and lunging for the next, jaws streaming with red. 

_Linde._

Arrows rained out from the smoke, piercing those who encroached on the spotted predator, amid panicked shouts from the defenders. H’aanit rolled forward from the smoke as a crackle of thunder sounded behind her. Bolts of white hot lightning arced around her, felling any her arrows failed to stop. He was there. Standing at the top of the stairs, eyes shining though his face was streaked with blood, he was there.

_For me._

“Cyrus!” Therion yelled, the exertion in his throat sending him into a coughing fit. Doubled over, he didn’t see Cyrus turn to him, didn’t see his face pale when he saw the state he was in. He did hear his voice yelling for Primrose, and she was running towards him in a flash, dodging past the thinning number of thieves. Many further back in the hall turned to flee through a rear passageway, and many more were still in the process of questioning their own commitment.

The dancer reached Therion, brandishing the axe she had borrowed from H’aanit. Waving him aside, she brought it down, severing the chain.

“Are you okay?” Prim was breathless.

“Do I fucking look okay?” Therion croaked.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” She helped Therion to his feet. He was shaky and weak, and had to lean heavily on her. She tried to move them towards the stairwell, where Cyrus, H’aanit, and Linde were still fending off the most stubborn of the group.

“No,” Therion said, stumbling towards Darius’ room. “The stones.”

“Dammit, Therion, we need to get you out of here.” 

“No,” Therion grunted, and pulled away from her. He wasn't able to support his own weight, and he fell to the ground. “I’m not leaving empty-handed after all this shit.” 

Primrose gave a worried look at Cyrus and H’aanit, but they weren't looking back, too focused on the fight. Therion was pulling himself across the floor as best he could, trying to get to the room. “Dammit,” she muttered, and helped Therion up again, this time leading him towards the chamber.

They burst through the open door to confront the very last thing Therion wanted to see. Darius looked up at them, surprised, box of Dragonstones tucked under one arm. Therion’s heart caught in his throat as Darius flashed him a menacing grin.

“Ye cheeky fucker,” Darius said, and though unarmed, lunged for the battered thief and the dancer.

Primrose let Therion fall to swing the axe at Darius with her full force, cutting through the flesh of his bicep, making him drop the box and scream in pain.

“Try again, asshole.”

Darius raged, gripping his bleeding arm, staggering back towards his secret passage concealed by the large banner with a crow.

“We’re not done, Therion,” he growled.

Therion, on his hands and knees, grabbed the box of stones. He flashed an extended middle finger at Darius, clutching the box to his chest, while Primrose stood between them with the bloody axe. Darius stumbled down his back passageway to make his escape. Therion let himself breathe.

“Come on.” Primrose helped him up again. “Here. It’s cold.” One of Darius’ shirts lay crumpled on the bed. Primrose snatched it up, holding it out to him. He looked at her dumbly for a moment, before grabbing it and pulling it over his head. The hem fell to the middle of his thigh, and the sleeves spilled over his hands. 

As they turned to make their exit, there was another rumbling explosion. Beams and stones came crashing down outside the door. 

“Dammit, Cyrus!” Primrose yelled. Therion shook his head.

“That wasn’t him.” Something Darius had said wafted through his mind. _We even booby-trapped the roof._ Dust rolled through the door, now blocked with debris.

“H’aanit!” Primrose called, but the door was impassable, the churning rubble making her fall back, coughing.

“We aren not hurt,” H’aanit’s voice seemed distant from the other side of the cave-in. “Our foes retreateth. But…” There was a scrabbling at the other side of the cave-in of the roof. “I doth not think I can reache thee easily.”

Therion turned back to the crow banner and groaned. “It’s got to have another way out, no way would Darius have them carrying all their stuff through his private room.” He leaned into the cloth, tearing it from its hangings to reveal the hidden staircase. He almost tumbled down the steps before catching himself on the wall. He looked back at Primrose.

“You got that axe ready?”

“He’s down there,” Primrose said.

Therion spied an old sword leaning in a corner, and snatched up up. “Building’s on fire.” He barely heard Prim call instructions back to H’aanit. He was already half tumbling down the stairs.

They heard the voices in the treasure room before they reached the bottom. 

“Whaddya mean, ye gave up?” Darius was shouting. “Ye useless lot!”

“Why weren’t you out there fighting with us?!” 

“Yeah, you were down here swipin’ the treasure for yourself!”

“Safeguarding it, ye morons. So they didn’t git it. Look, I’m even bleedin’ from fighin’ one of ‘em that came after me! If ye blew the roof, they might be trapped upstairs now!”

“We could go get ‘em for a hostage. Make them call off their beast and their lighting.”

Two thieves cme charging up the stairs, surprised to find their targets already standing there. Therion jabbed at them weakly with the sword, the box of Dragonstones humming against his chest, while Primrose twirled her hips and hands to conjure and launch a ball of dark energy at them, sending them falling back. One of them grabbed at Therion, bring him down with him. Primrose scrambled after him, swinging H’aanit’s axe.

She crouched over the fallen Therion at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the treasure room lined with thieves. “Stay back!” she warned, brandishing her axe. “I’ll get your other arm.”

One of the thieves standing opposite Darius laughed. “This is the one ya fought? This wisp of a girl, and your bitch boy who can’t hardly stand?” The others laughed while Darius fumed.

“Then get ‘em, ye lousy fuckers!” Darius raged. Therion scrambled to his feet, squaring up behind Primrose.

“So you can make off with the treasure,” the rebellious thief said, turning his blade on Darius. “I don’t think that’s gonna sit right with me and the boys here.”

There was a shaking and cracking. Every eye in the room turned to look at the stone wall. A fissure of ice was growing from the top of the wall, spreading down from the ceiling along the mortar between the cut stones. The stones cracked apart from the growing pressure of the ice, sending a steady rain of stone pieces inward as the wall collapsed. The thieves retreated back to against the far wall, a few turning tail back up the far passage. The wall collapsed into dust and rubble as the ice spread and grew to replace it. Those in the treasure room stared as it shattered, icy shards falling to mix with the spilled gold coin on the floor.

A shadow dropped down into the space where the wall had been from the broken stairwell beyond, cloak flaring out before settling against the crouched figure. Cyrus raised his head, eyes ablaze, as he stood slowly. H’aanit dropped gracefully at his side, arrow notched, followed by Linde, teeth bared, back arched.

“Your most logical course of action,” Cyrus began, raising a hand, fingers angled deliberately, “is to run.”

“Ye motherfuckers,” Darius snarled. “What are ye idiots waitin’ fer?” He roused his henchmen. “Ye gonna let these assholes take our rightful treasure?”

A few thieves turned their weapons on Cyrus and H’aanit, before the rebel leader stopped them. “We’re not takin’ orders from you no more, Darius.” He turned to the scholar. “Take your people. We don’t want ‘em.”

Therion felt Prim’s fingers tighten around his wrist, but he couldn’t stop staring at Cyrus. Calm, determined, resolute, his eyes never wavered. He had fought his way through dozens of foes, suffered injury and risked death by their hands.

_For me._

“Not on yer life!” Darius scowled, and charged towards the scholar and the huntress. H’aanit loosed the arrow into the center of Darius’ chest, while lightning flashed through the room. Darius crumpled, hand clutching the arrow in his sternum. His men scattered backwards. 

“Come on,” Primrose whispered, tugging on Therion’s wrist, leading them around the edge of the room to Cyrus and H’aanit, who already had another arrow notched. The huntress’ eyes flashed to her quickly, giving a little nod as Primrose touched her shoulder reassuringly. Cyrus’ eyes were still fixed on Darius.

“THIS is he?” Cyrus asked, glaring down at Darius, eyes aflame. Darius was trying to recover from the lightning blast, struggling with the arrow in his chest, but still storming with unchecked anger. 

“THIS is the loathsome jackanape who fancies himself lord of this repugnant hellhole?” Cyrus raised his hand, and Therion, moving to his side, could feel the magical energies swirling around him as he prepared to unleash all manner of arcane fury all over Darius’ unsuspecting form. 

Therion raised a shaking hand to Cyrus’ forearm, lowering it gently. The scholar turned to him, and Therion could feel the magic dissipate in an instant.

“Cyrus.” Therion shook his head. “Don’t.” Cyrus sought answers in his eyes, but Therion just looked down to Darius. He peered upwards, hopeful, cracking a hint of a relieved grin.

“Partners,” Darius said, his voice gravelly.

Therion’s eyes hardened. “He’s not worth the effort. Let’s go.” 

Cyrus nodded slowly, and hooking an arm under Therion, help spirit him away from the thieves’ den, Primrose, H’aanit, and Linde following closely behind.

Darius, jaw agape, watched Therion go. He waited for him to look back. 

The retreated thugs began to emerge again from the shadows, grins and weapons bared.

Therion heard the scream, and breath caught in his throat. 

He still did not look back.

\--- --- ---

Therion leaned heavily into Cyrus as they trudged through the snow, concentrating on keeping one foot in front of the other. He had picked up some boots and trousers off of a fallen thief on his way out, both of which were far too big for him, but it beat being barefoot. He clutched the box of Dragonstones to his chest. He could feel their distinctive aura. He had felt the effects of the other two individually, this combination seemed to have a different effect: He wanted to find the highest point in the Frostlands and chuck the box from the top. He wanted to go back to the tavern and upend all the tables, smash all the glasses. He wanted to hurl insults at the black cloaks until he had an excuse to jump on them, beat their faces in until they were hardly recognizable. He was too tired and hurt to do any of this, though.

He stumbled forward, tripping over his too-large boots, and went sprawling into the snow. The box tumbled from his hands. Cyrus was there, helping him up, even as Therion reached for the stones.

“We needen to stop,” H’aanit said. “He is in no state.”

Therion shook his head. “We can’t. They’ll find us.”

“Their leader is gone,” Primrose argued.

“Precisely,” Cyrus said. “Now they have no disciplined hierarchy or direction for their wanton violence. Likely there will be infighting and struggles for power. That town is not a place for anyone to be right now.”

“Thou needeth an apothecary,” H’aanit told Therion. 

“I needeth some food,” Therion snapped. The hurt look on her face made him regret this, but a loud growl from his stomach accented his words.

“We return to the cabin,” Cyrus said, draping his cloak over Therion’s shoulders. “The falling snow will cover our tracks.”

Even though the sun had risen, the sky was overcast, gray and gloomy with heavy clouds. They struggled on, Primrose keeping a keen eye on their surroundings, apprehensive that the man who had nearly killed her had returned. He knew where the cabin was; he had ties to those thieves. If he took charge of the remaining thieves and came for them… Therion collapsed again, though this time they were in sight of the cabin. He wouldn’t be able to make it much further than that. He wouldn’t be able to fight if that man came back, either.

Upon struggling through the cabin door, Therion stumbled for the remains of the fire, dropping the box of Dragonstones. He knelt in front of the hearth, feeling for the warmth. He tried to focus for the magic, but he couldn’t make it work. He looked at the ends of his purpled, shaking fingers, and just wanted to scream in frustration. The energy was gone, the last of his reserves used up in the escape through the snow. He fell forward, collapsing into a ball over his knees. 

There was a low murmur at his side, hardly recognizable as words, and the fire sprang back to warm, comforting life. He raised his face slowly. Cyrus was on one knee beside him, firelight flickering in his eyes. He reached out a hand as if to touch Therion’s shoulder, but stopped it before it actually connected.

H’aanit, standing a few paces away from the hearth next to Primrose, nudged her in the side. She spoke softly. “I shalle finden some more firewood. Checken the snares. Thou should comen with.”

“We can’t stay here,” Primrose whispered back.

“He is in no shape for travel. Come. Letten them be.”

Primrose nodded, and followed her out.

Therion didn’t notice them go. He was watching the fire in Cyrus’ eyes. He could imagine how he looked to him right now-- blackened eyes, busted nose. His tongue kept finding where his lower lip was swollen around a cut. His hair was matted and crusted with blood and beer and sweat and other things Therion didn’t want to think about. _And he fought to get me back, garbage that I am._

“I have your clothes,” Cyrus said. _WhAt An iDioTic ThiNg To sAy. Yes, but what am I-- yOu LaCk EmPaThY._

Therion sat back on his knees as Cyrus rummaged through their things, hidden away in a corner of the abandoned cabin. He dug through his pack, pulling out Therion’s clothes, folded neatly in a stack, his purple scarf on top. Cyrus set them down next to Therion, while the thief continued to stare into the fire.

“Thanks,” Therion said absently. As Cyrus watched, he stripped off the shirt he had stolen from Darius’ room, tossing it aside. Cyrus’ breath caught in his throat as he saw Therion in the firelight. His chest, back, and arms were marred with deep purple bruises. Deep red cuts encircled his wrists from where the ropes had cut in to them. A messy burn in the shape of a D wept over his right ribs. There were handprints bruised into his neck. 

Therion heard the scholar’s sharp intake of breath, and looked over to him. Cyrus could only shake his head and reach for him, but he didn’t dare touch him. He couldn’t be the one to hurt him more. 

“I should have been quicker,” Cyrus said quietly. _LoOk At WhAt YoU LeT tHeM dO tO hiM. Every bit of that is my fault for hesitating, for BeiNg AfRaiD oF a SpeLL, of all the ridiculous things to fear._ “I should have--”

“It’s not your fault,” Therion interrupted, pulling his spare undershirt over his head, shivering at the coolness of the fabric. He shuffled closer to the fire before pulling the purple tunic on, looping the scarf around his shoulders. He waited to warm up before changing any more clothes, setting his boots close to the hearth.

“You need food,” Cyrus said, rising quickly. Therion’s stomach growled in agreement. He returned to the pile of supplies for some bread and dried meat, along with a flask of water. He handed these to Therion, then went back to pull out the mythril-coated box for the Dragonstones. Therion watched, ripping off a chunk of bread, but his jaw was too sore to chew through its hard crust. He poured some water between his lips, holding it there until the bread got soggy and gross, but chewable. Cyrus opened the chest of Dragonstones.

“You feel anything from them?” Therion asked. “Can’t tell if I’m pissed off ‘cause of them, or ‘cause of everything else.”

Cyrus didn’t respond. He transferred the stones quickly, shutting the mythril box and pushing it away from him. _’Pissed off’ does not have a strong enough connotation,_ he thought. _Irate. Furious. EnRaGed. iNcEnSeD._

He turned back to Therion, watching him struggle to eat. He had turned to face the fire, staring back into it, letting the thoughts settle through his hazy mind. 

“They would have killed you,” Therion said. 

“I know.” Cyrus sat down cross-legged and reached for the water flask, splashing some on his hand and wiping the dried blood from his temples.

“They _wouldn’t_ have killed the girls.” Therion popped another piece of bread into his mouth, holding it there. Cyrus didn’t respond. Therion took the water back, choking down more soggy bread. “I… I honestly believed him when he said he had run you all out of town. I didn’t think… I thought that you’d never find me, even if you tried. And if you tried, it would be way too stupid of a risk.”

“Then I suppose I’m not nearly as smart as I pretend to be,” Cyrus flashed him a weak grin. Therion knew his smile. That was not it. He shuffled closer, noticing the deep, dark circles beneath Cyrus’ eyes, the pallor of his skin, the tiny tension lines around his mouth. 

_For me. He came back, for me._

Therion took Cyrus’ pale hands in his, wincing when he brushed his left middle finger against the scholar’s palm-- that one was definitely broken. Cyrus tried to pull away when he saw Therion’s pain, but the thief didn’t let him.

“I gotta say this now before I overthink it, otherwise I’m never gonna say it,” Therion said to Cyrus’ hands. He hesitated, searching for words. _Shit. If I could say it to Darius, I can say it to him._

"Odette said something about how you..." Therion shook his head, starting over. "You don't have to say anything back. Don’t feel like you have to. But I want you to know." He lifted his eyes, shining wet and deep and startlingly vulnerable.

"I love you."

_He'S LYiNg-- What did Odette say to him?-- YoU aLwAyS jUsT LeAd ThEm On, ThEn ThEy FiGuRe OuT hOw FaKe YoU aRe-- How does he know? How does anyone-- YoU cAn'T kNow. He'S jUsT emotional, he's been through a lot that YoU cOuLdN't SaVe HiM fRoM. Complete, and utter FaiLuRe. hE DeServes better than me. Someone who understands love. Whose heart isn't RoTtEn FrOm ThE iNsiDe._

Slowly, Therion dropped his eyes. "It's better if you don't say anything, than if you lie, because--"

Cyrus' lips were on his, his hand gingerly around the back of his neck, barely applying any pressure. Therion melted forward into him, hands on his chest, sinking into the feeling. He heard the cabin door open, and H’aanit and Primrose’s footsteps, and normally he would have pulled away, embarrassed for anyone to see him displaying any kind of affection. Right now, he didn’t care.

When he broke away from the kiss, split lip throbbing, he sank his head against Cyrus’ shoulder. The scholar looked down at him, a bit of that intense spark creeping back into them. He opened his mouth to speak, and Therion felt his heart flutter.

“You should rest,” Cyrus said gently. Therion looked away.

“Okay.” He let himself sink down into Cyrus’ lap, laying his head on his thigh, trying to feel reassured by Cyrus’ hand barely touching his back, arranging his cloak over him. 

H’aanit approached slowly, setting down her stack of firewood near the hearth, a pair of snared snowshoe rabbits hanging limp from her side. “He needeth an apothecary,” she said quietly. Cyrus ignored her, stroking Therion’s back so lightly he barely touched it.

She turned back to Primrose, made herself a place to start skinning and cleaning the rabbits, but hesitated. The dancer had been glancing over her shoulder nervously the entire time they had been out gathering wood. “We can’t stay here,” she whispered. “If he comes back…”

“We needen help,” she said. “And we cannot getten it from Northreach. I shalle goen to Stillsnow, asken Susanna. She hath remedies like an apothecary.”

“You’re going to bring an old woman out here in the snow?” Primrose asked. H’aanit frowned.

“I shalle finden someone. Mayhaps in Flamesgrace. Clerics knowen healing spells.”

“I’ll go with you,” Primrose said.

H’aanit shook her head. “I shalle be faster on mine own. And besides…” she glanced at Therion and Cyrus, “They shalle needen thee.”

Primrose bit her lower lip. “But what about--”

“Linde shalle stayen with thee. Thou shalt be safe with both her and Cyrus’ magic.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress,” Primrose crossed her arms. 

“I knowe that.” H’aanit touched her shoulder. “Thou art strong. I mentione them for thine peace of mind. When Therion is strong enough, meeten me in Stillsnow, or else I shalle see thee on the path.”

“Alright. I don’t like it, but alright.” She leaned forward to embrace H’aanit and plant a kiss on her cheek. The huntress blushed. “Be safe.”

“I shalle,” H’aanit said. She bent to give instructions to Linde, picked up her pack, and gave Primrose a last nod before she ducked out the door into the snowfall. Primrose looked at the door for a long time, before she locked and barricaded it. Linde stuck to her side the whole time. Primrose patted her head, then moved back over to the fire.

Therion was asleep already, she could tell from his breathing. Cyrus stared straight ahead. She took a handkerchief from her pocket-- it was Therese’s, the one the blood crystal had been wrapped in-- and wet it with her water flask. There were still dark marks on each of Cyrus’ temples, where he had left the bloodstains from the spell. She bent to clean them off, Cyrus only flinching away and noticing her when the water touched him.

“Hold still,” she said. She scrubbed harder. “It’s not coming off.”

“No,” Cyrus said absently. “It wouldn’t.”

\--- --- ---

Primrose had been up all night, and sleepiness tugged on her eyelids. Trying to talk to Cyrus was like talking to a brick wall. She cooked the rabbits H’aanit had snared, but she didn’t feel like eating, and couldn’t get a response from Cyrus. She packed them in some snow in a cold corner for the morning. When she lay down, Linde’s warm, furry body nestled against her, she fell asleep quickly.

Cyrus looked down at Therion, fighting back the wave of guilt he felt whenever he saw the state he was in. He reached a hand down to brush the hair from his forehead, but pulled his hand away at the last minute. 

It hadn’t been the first time someone had told him they loved him. Poets and bards spoke of love at this overwhelming, all-encompassing sensation. Something to experience with one's entire being. Cyrus had never felt that. He'd never let himself feel that.

_HaVe YoU eVeR LoVeD aNyOnE, yOu MiSeRaBLe FaiLuRe?_

_I suppose not._

_BeCaUsE iT wOuLd MaKe YoU wEaK. wEaKeR tHaN yOu ArE aLrEaDy._

_I should have used the spell sooner. I should have gone after him immediately._

_If YoU aCtUaLLy LoVeD hiM, yOu WoULd HaVe. YoU wOuLd HaVe NeVeR LeT tHeM dO tHiS tO hiM. pAtHeTiC._

Cyrus sunk his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes until the voice stopped. 

_If only there was a way to go back. To turn back the pages. To set things right. But even magic has its limitations._

_SeT tHiNgS riGHt._

Cyrus looked up at the sleeping form of Primrose, her arms tucked neatly under the pack she used as a pillow. He knew she clutched her dagger underneath it, that dagger on which she had sworn her revenge. That was Primrose’s answer to those who had wronged her, hurt her, stolen so much from her. Why not--

_SeT tHiNgS riGHt._

Cyrus shook his head, as if to shake the voice from his consciousness. 

_He's dead. The man who did this is dead._

_OnE mAn. YoU tHiNk He WaS tHe OnLy OnE? nAïvE, siMpLe FoOL._

_But what--_

_YoU cAn FiNd ThEm. aLL oF tHeM. yOu CaN mAkE tHeM pAy._

The mental echo of a spell’s power rushed through him, all the lingering sensation without the manifestation of the magic, along with the image of Yvon’s house in Stonegard bursting into flames. Of lightning echoing around the cellars beneath an abandoned cathedral, felling every foe in its wake. 

_They’ve scattered, like cockroaches. To waste time in investigating where each and every one of them has scurried, only to--_

_YoU cAn FiNd ThEm. YoU fOuNd HiM._

_I’d need something that they’ve all touched--_ He looked down at Therion, and felt sick.

Careful not to disturb the thief, he pulled the blood crystal from his pocket. He had kept it with him, in case the spell faded, in case something unexpected happened. That’s what he had told himself, anyway. The firelight glinted off the deep red color, adding to the sinister aura of the wretched thing. It was much more clear than the imperfect versions in the sewer in Quarrycrest, or even the one Yvon had held for his infernal transformation into an inhuman beast. Turning it over in his hands, Cyrus wondered how many lives the manufacture of this blood crystal had cost.

_BeTtEr PuT tHeM tO gOoD uSe._

_Once is enough. I can’t--_

_dOn’T yOu DeSiRe VeNgEaNcE? fOr WhAt ThEy HaVe DoNe To HiM?_

_I don’t have that kind of power. To do that unnoticed, and make it back here…_

As if Redeye had been clawing through his memories, a page from _The Far Reaches of Hell_ fluttered to the forefront of his mind. It was farther back in the book, almost near the end of the tome. A simple spell for the effect that it had. He could see the calligraphed letters unfurling hin his mind. _Sanguinus Damnere_.

_Do iT._

Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, jamming his fingers into his temples.

_Do iT! wHy ShOuLd ThE gIrL bE tHe OnLy OnE sAtIaTeD wItH vEnGeAnCe?_

Cyrus bit his lip, looking down at Therion in his lap. A dagger glinted at his waist, stolen from the same dead thief as his pants and boots. Cyrus slid it away from him slowly, then hesitated.

_DoEs He NoT dEsErVe iT? pErHaPs YoU rEaLLy DoN’t CaRe FoR HiM._

Cyrus shifted Therion carefully off of his lap onto the floor, reaching for a piece of charcoal from the fire. He snuck over to retrieve his copy of the forbidden magic tome, and unwrapped the bandage from his wrist. The cut would be quick to open again. He had done the spell once easily enough, though he would have to try to keep his voice quiet this time. The knowledge would be his. He could find them, and he could _EnD tHeM._


	29. Succor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Therion's no good horrible very bad adventure in the Frostlands.

In Therion’s nightmare, he had awoken to Cyrus kneeling next to him, touching his back. But it also hadn’t been Cyrus. His eyes were dark, maddened, and he was speaking a foreign tongue in a voice that hadn’t been his. Therion had frozen, too frightened to move. Cyrus’ lips had stopped, but his voice kept going in the demonic chant while he looked down at him.

“Go to sleep,” he had said.

“Are you leaving?” _Of course he’s leaving. He can’t bear to look at you. He can’t bear to touch you._

“It needs to be done. I shall return.”

“Don’t go. Please.”

“Rest.”

“Cyrus…”

He woke up now, not sure if it had been a dream. He sat up, stiff from lying on the floor of the cabin. he glanced around, wide-eyed. There was Prim, and Linde. No H’aanit.

No Cyrus.

He struggled to his feet, scrambling over to Primrose, grabbing her shoulder. She awoke with a start, grabbing for her dagger before she recognized Therion.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?!” Primrose rested a hand on her chest.

“Where’s Cyrus?” Therion said, the emotion in his voice scaring him. Primrose looked around the empty cabin. She rose, marching to the cabin door, which had been unbarred, for who knew how long. _If that crow had come while I had slept…_ She flung it open to look at the pristine blanket of fresh snow-- no tracks. She turned back to Therion, her face twisted in anger.

“That son of a bitch.”

“No.” Therion sat back, glancing around the cabin. The Dragonstones were still there. Cyrus’ things weren’t. He buried his face in his hands. “No. No.” 

He felt Primrose’s hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said gently. “Come on. Eat something, we have to go.” She had some cold, cooked rabbit for him.

Therion glared up at her. “He’s coming back.”

Primrose looked down at him, sadly. “We can’t stay here. H’aanit’s bringing help. We’re to meet her in Stillsnow. Can you walk?”

Therion stared at the remains of the dying fire. “He’s coming back.”

Primrose sighed. “I’ll write him a note. But we can’t stay.” She crossed to their things, rummaging only to realize she had no parchment or ink. She found a chunk of charcoal on the floor, stepping back only to see a second runic circle etched on the floor at her feet. She jumped away from it, looking up at Therion. He hadn’t noticed. He was staring at the dying embers in the hearth. Shaking her head, she bent to scrawl a message on the wall, trying to restrain herself from beginning it with, ‘look here, asshole.’

While she wrote, Linde padded over to Therion, nudging his hand. He flinched, not expecting the leopard’s cold nose. He a little frightened of her still. She licked his forearm, her tongue warm and rough against his skin, her yellow eyes watching him. He let his shoulders fall, and tentatively ran his hand over Linde’s forehead. She lifted her head so he held her face. Her eyes were deep, with the mysterious edge of calm power. She licked his nose. 

Primrose gathered up their things, trying to shove the box of Dragonstones into her pack. Therion watched her, his hands still petting the leopard. “I can take those,” he said. “They’re my responsibility.” He tried to rise to his feet, his whole body screaming out its resistance. He winced, but forced himself up. Linde was at his side, her back against his leg, supporting him as much as she could. He stroked her neck. “I gotta get my boots on.”

“Therion,” Primrose said, watching him struggle. He looked up at her. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s coming back,” Therion muttered. He wouldn’t let himself believe otherwise. He couldn’t take it.

\--- --- ---

Therion struggled listlessly through the snow covered path. If it hadn’t been for Linde at his side, using her back to keep him from falling forward, he would have. He kept a hand on her back, finding a tiny bit of comfort in her warmth and strength. And without Primrose leading him, he knew he would have just stayed down once he fell. She walked on his other side, wrapped in her own thoughts.

They stopped often and made progress only slowly. Therion downed the last of the flask he had hidden away in his things, and it was not nearly enough whiskey to take the edge off. He ignored most of what Primrose tried to get him to eat. As the sun inched further towards the horizon, Primrose worried a lot-- about where to camp, about the slow progress they were making, about H’aanit’s absence, about the crow who could be following their tracks right now, about Therion’s silence. 

In her paranoia, when she saw a figure on horseback approaching, her first instinct was to hide and draw her weapon. She tried to pull Therion along with her, but he stumbled over himself and fell to the ground. Sensing their unease, Linde set herself between the two and the approaching rider, baring her teeth.

“Therion, get over here!” she hissed, trying to grab at him and pull him toward the cover of some trees.

Therion just looked at her blankly. “Why?”

The rider came close enough for Primrose to see, with exhausted relief, that it was Alaic-- Susanna’s bodyguard. A second horse trailed behind him. Primrose stepped from the trees to hail him, while Therion sat listlessly in the snowbank. 

“H’aanit sent me to help get you back to Stillsnow,” Alaic said, reigning his mount in as he reached her. “She tells me one of your men is badly hurt.” He frowned, surveying only the two of them.

“Where is she?” Primrose asked.

“She went on to Flamesgrace for aid. Though Susanna has some knowledge of the ways of medicine, she sent her on to get someone with stronger hands and fresher herbs.”

Primrose sighed. “Well, thank you for coming for us. I was afraid we would be stuck out here for days.” She stepped back towards Therion. “Come on. We’re going to Stillsnow.”

Therion looked at her, then at the horses. The thought of jostling for miles in a saddle, with his broken body... he shook his head at her, despairing.

“I can’t…” he whispered. 

Primrose knelt in the snow beside him. “Ride sideways. It’ll be okay. It’ll be better than wandering on foot for days.”

Therion’s eyes were wide. “I…”

“Come on.” Primrose helped him up, supporting him as he struggled into the saddle. 

“The other one who was with you,” Alaic said, voice low. “Is he--?”

Primrose shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.” She looked up at Therion, who was pretending to ignore their conversation. “I think I should ride with him. He might fall off otherwise.”

“Sure. Don’t fret too much, these old girls know the path home.”

Primrose settled herself behind Therion, so she could have an arm bracing each side of him as they rode. 

“You don’t have to treat me like a little kid,” Therion complained. He tried his best not to lean into her as they started off, Linde running easily beside their horse.

“Then stop acting like one,” Primrose said. She let a few moments pass in silence. “Denying reality is only going to make it hurt more later.”

“He’s coming back,” Therion muttered.

“Did he tell you that?”

Therion had been trying to remember all day if his hazy memory had been a dream or reality. He hadn’t been able to tell.

“No,” he finally admitted.

Primrose sighed. She felt Therion slump against her. She straightened her back, holding the both of them up.

“He drove himself crazy when you didn’t come back,” she said quietly. “He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. He only thought about you.”

She felt Therion stir, but she didn’t look down at him.

“He used that blood magic to find you. From that evil-looking book, the kind he swore never to use. You were more important to him than any of those dangers.” She waited to hear if Therion had anything to say. He kept quiet, so she continued. “He said he worried about the cost it would have. I don’t know where he is now, or if that has anything to do with what he did, or where he could have gone, but you can’t count on him. You can’t count on anyone else. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this world, it’s that you’ve got to make it for yourself.”

“I know that,” Therion said quietly. “Godsdamnit, do I know that.” _I just keep thinking it will be different._

“Then you know you have go to Stillsnow. You have keep moving.”

They rode in silence for a while longer. Primrose assumed Therion was asleep, until he spoke. His voice was so quiet, she barely heard it over the beat of the horses’ hooves and the wind in her ears.

“I told him I loved him.”

Primrose let this hit her, deep, echoes of another long-ago voice in his words.

\--- --- ---

He blinked. 

His hands were so pale.

The sky was gray, the sun a muted smudge of white brightness behind drooping clouds. The frigid air whistled past his cloak, cutting in deep. He moved to tug up the hood of his cloak reflexively, only to find it already on his head, casting a shadow over his eyes.

Before him, white snow. A black figure, arms spread wide like wings. A black crow. 

He turned about, trying to catch a sense of himself. The street was quiet save for the low groaning of the wind. A monotone wailing of nature. A swan song.

No. Swans were white. Crows were black.

There were a few of them perched about, slumped, heaped. What was a group of them called again?

A murder. A murder of crows.

He crept near one of them, trying not to make a sound. He didn’t want to wake it. There was no blood. There were no wounds. No burns, no lightning scars, no nothing. Just black cloth. White skin, drained of life. He reached out a hand as if to inspect it, but didn't want to touch it. Pale hand. Black cloak.

 

He rose, swirling as he turned away. He couldn't stomach the sight. There were tracks in the snow, some leading up right to where his feet were. He could follow them. Find out where he had come from, where he had been. Travel backwards, in space, but not in time. White snow crunched under black shoes, leaving new imprints to follow.

_Did you do this, or did I?_

No answer but the moan of the wind. The street was deserted. The motionless black lumps rested in the white snow, slowly being buried by it. The flakes glittered in the high sun, blinding light. His mind was an expanse of empty shadow. Thoughts appeared slowly, fading towards the front of his consciousness. Bright sky. Dark mind.

The wind whistled, hollow and cold. The snow fell. White slowly buried the black. 

The world had been drained of color.

It existed only as an illustration in a book. An artist’s rendering of reality. The edges roughly shaded, only some parts filled in with detail.

His hands were so pale.

Turning them over to look at the wrists, he saw the crisscrossing lines of his veins, dark spiderwebs pulsing beneath thin, parchment skin. There was a deep V cut into one wrist, only barely sealed with a dark scab.

_Did I do that? Or did you?_

There came no answer, of course, save the wind bellowing out its mad elegy. 

He traced his fingers over the scar, his hands so cold they could barely feel the pulse of life beneath them. 

_Why? Why would I…?_

It came back in a rush. A swirl of light and shadows, of white hot anger and cold darkness, of fury and jealousy and injustice dredged up from the innermost recesses of memory; the electric pull of the power and the whispers of tantalizing voices luring closer, closer, forever just out of reach; the pulse of frantic thought hidden in the dark, shielded behind a decades-old, white, icy facade... The shaded light of a secret smile. The warm heartbeat so close and so distant. The strange familiarity. The guarded, open heart. The contradiction in terms and attitudes. The juxtaposition of their countenances and forms. Two parallel lines twisted by fate to intersect. 

_Therion._

He started back the way he had come, leaving the black to be buried by the falling white.

\--- --- ---

The horses made it to Stillsnow by the light of a few lanterns, in the dark of night. Alaic had been right about the animals-- they knew the way even in the pitch black. Susanna welcomed them back in, offering up Alaic’s room again. She had a fire going, for which Therion was thankful, but he was was even more eager to immerse himself in the hot spring, to wash off the accumulated filth still stuck to his skin, to let the water lift the weight off of him, to be embraced by the warmth. 

He sat in the same place where he had pulled away from Cyrus, thinking about what a paranoid fool he was. _That had been Primrose's idea. She doesn’t trust him. Maybe she's right._ He reached for the side of the spring to steady himself, suddenly dizzy. _You let them in only to let them hurt you._ He waited for the cavern to stop spinning.

_He fought for you. He suffered for you. He used freaky-ass blood magic to find you. Darius wouldn’t have done shit. None of the jerks that came before him would have, either._ He sunk into the warm pool, leaning his head back into the water, combing through his tangled hair with his fingers. _Then where is he?_

He soaked himself in the water, alone, until it grew too warm to be comfortable. When he emerged and dressed, Susanna had some warm stew and some foul-smelling medicine ready for him. He took the stew, and ignored the potion. He was afraid it would make him sleep for days again. He didn’t notice the exhaustion creeping through him. He didn’t know he was falling asleep until the noise of a sharp knock on the door awakened him the next morning.

He was settled in a chair, and old-fashioned threadbare quilt wrapped around him. Primrose stirred on the couch nearby, as Linde rose and stretched from the floor in front of the fireplace. The knock came again, crisp and urgent. Primrose stood, Linde at her side. Therion fumbled for his stolen dagger. Alaic, rubbing sleep from his eyes, was at the door of his room with a sword.

Primrose opened the door apprehensively. When she saw H’aanit behind it, she fell into the huntress’ arms. H’aanit flushed and hugged her back, while Linde nuzzled her leg in greeting. 

“I hath broughte an apothecary,” H’aanit said, motioning to the man who followed her in.

His eyes lit up when he recognized Primrose and Therion. “Oh, hey y’all!” He smiled wide as he held out a hand to the dancer. “‘Fraid I may have forgot your name. It was a flower, right? Lily? Daisy?”

“Primrose,” she said, taking his hand tentatively. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t remember his name, either.

“Alfyn.” He grinned. He nodded to Therion, peering at him from over the back of the chair. “Hey man. Been gettin’ yourself in some more scrapes, huh?”

Therion stared at him. He was pretty sure he had never met this man before in his life.

Primrose nodded to him. “This is the same apothecary who fixed you up back in Wellspring.”

“Oh.” Therion glared. “Thanks, I guess.”

Susanna hobbled in from her room, investigating the noise in her parlor. H’aanit was all apologies.

“Excusen me, Mistress Susanna, but I hath--”

The old fortune teller waved a hand dismissively. “Not a problem. If you trust them, H’aanit, then I trust them. I’ll fix some tea.”

“Thank thee. I shalle helpe.” 

Therion watched Alfyn and Primrose cross further into the room, his gut telling him he should stand up-- as he would have a better chance of defending himself or running that way-- but his body had settled into the chair, and he knew it would protest any movement. He decided to try, slowly, and mask any of the pain it was going to cause.

Alfyn was looking around, sprinkling compliments in Susanna’s direction. He turned to Primrose. “Hey, what happened to that Professor guy y’all were with?”

It hit Therion like a punch to the gut, but Primrose covered for him. “Where’s that cleric girl you were with?”

“Oh, Phili’s back in Flamesgrace,” Alfyn said. “Her dad’s real sick, but as she’s near done with her pilgrimage, and he was feelin’ a little better, she stopped by and she and her sister are havin’ some family time. ‘Fraid I felt a little out of place, so I wandered on up here, hearin’ about a wise ol’ fortune teller who lives up here. When Miss H’aanit here came askin’ for help, figured I could be of some use.” He shrugged, and turned to Therion with a warm smile. “Come on, bud, let’s see what I can do to help fix you up. You’re at least conscious this time, so that’s a plus. Miss Susanna, might you have someplace a bit private where I could help out my patient?”

“No,” Therion said pointedly. The group turned to look at him, and he dropped his eyes. 

Primrose frowned at him. “Therion, he helped save your life before. Don’t be rude.”

“I don’t need an apothecary’s help.” Therion said. He hadn’t been awake the last time, apparently, but he had been awake the time he had seen an apothecary before that. The one who had found him lying at the bottom of the gorge, bleeding out from the wound in his side. The one who had sewn him up and treated him, only to hold him prisoner, strapped to an exam table, treating him like a piece of meat to experiment upon, until the corrupt city watch had come to haul him to jail. He didn’t trust them, and he certainly didn’t want their help.

H’aanit looked at him sternly. “Aye, thou dost. And thou shalt let him helpen you, or thy broken bones will menden crooked, or thy cuts will festeren, or thou shalt die of some internal injury. Goen with him. If thou art nervous, Primrose or I-- Primrose will goen with thee.”

Therion stared at H’aanit. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her eyes fixed, her resolve hardened. Therion wouldn’t admit out loud that he was intimidated by her.

“Sure thing, mom,” he scoffed, but his eyes settled on the animal at her side. “But I want Linde to come with.”

H’aanit looked down at her companion.

Therion narrowed his eyes. “She can go for the throat if this guy tries to fuck with me.”

“Language, Therion,” Primrose scolded, shooting an apologetic glance at Susanna, who just chuckled.

“Whoa, buddy, I think you got the wrong idea here,” Alfyn raised his hands in front of him. “Let me tell ya, you look like you’re a little worse for wear. My whole deal is just trying to help ya.”

“I’ll go if Linde goes,” he said. “I trust her.” _And she can’t talk and make judgemental comments afterwards, or give me any of those pitiful looks Primrose has been flashing at me this whole time._

H’aanit knelt at the eye level of her companion, muttering some instructions to her. Linde licked her nose, and circled over to Therion. 

“She liketh thee,” H’aanit said.

“Good,” Therion snapped, resting his hand at the scruff of the leopard’s neck. “Let’s get this over with.”

Susanna motioned them into Alaic’s room, and served he and the women some tea. Alfyn eyed the leopard suspiciously as he followed her and Therion inside with his satchel.

“Look, man, I really think you got the wrong idea here,” he said. “I’m not a bad guy. Me and Phili helped with that scar you got on your neck.”

“Yeah, I got that. Thanks.” Therion’s voice was cold. “I don’t trust apothecaries on principle.”

“Well, maybe I’m swallowin’ a bit of pride stoopin’ to help out a thief,” Alfyn muttered, spitting out the last word like a curse. “Even if he does pal around with decent folk. But I’m not too proud to say no to a fella in need, and you look like you need some help. Take your shirt off, let’s see the damage.”

Therion sat on the bed, and hesitated, hands on the hem of his tunic. He eyed Linde, who watched his face for cues. He swallowed hard, and peeled off the clothes on his upper body.

Alfyn whistled through his teeth when he saw the patchwork of bruises and cuts on Therion’s chest. “Gonna need to mix up some essence of grape, some purifying seed, heck, might as well toss some noxroot in there. An’ the bruisin’ there might mean a busted rib or two. Been messin’ with those thieves again?”

Therion glared at him. Alfyn shrugged. “Run in rough crowds, you’re gonna get what you’re gonna get. Probably rightly so.” Therion flinched at this, but the apothecary didn’t notice.

“D’ya mind leanin’ back? It might hurt if I touch it, but that’s the only way to know… if there’s a way to tell your guard kitty here that I’m not attackin’ ya, I’d appreciate it.”

Therion sighed and patted Linde in what he hoped was reassurance. He leaned back on the bed, arms stiff by his sides. When he felt Alfyn’s light touch on his skin, he started shaking involuntarily. He winced and pulled away when the apothecary felt at his busted rib, and Linde rose. Alfyn backed away, hands raised.

“Sorry,” Therion said surprised by the emotion in his voice. “I… sorry.” 

Alfyn was looking at him with that pitiful look he hated. “It’s alright. Hey, let me mix up some balm for ya right quick, then it won’t hurt if I have to poke at ya.” He started pulling jars and packets out of his satchel, arranging them on the bedside table. “And somethin’ for that burn there. How’s a thing like that happen?”

Therion didn’t say anything. Alfyn mixed together some of his ingredients for a bit, but then started on on a story about two boys from his hometown in Clearbrook, and how they had gotten banged up daring each other to jump from higher and higher rocks into the swimmin’ hole, and how it had been one of his first jobs to patch ‘em back up. Therion couldn’t care less about the story, but listening to it was less off-putting than complete silence, so he was thankful for it. 

He had Therion slide some cooling salve over his bruises and cuts, bandaging the larger ones, mixing a special one for the burn. He set Therion’s broken finger, wrapped some bangading around his middle to help set his ribs, all while telling folksy stories from back home. Therion didn’t have to say anything until Alfyn came to his neck.

“Think I could get ya to take that necklace off?” 

Therion couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I’ve been trying to get the damn thing off for months. Let me know if you have any brilliant ideas that don’t involve me putting my head on a blacksmith’s anvil.”

“Okey dokey,” Alfyn said, but looked at him quizzically. “How ‘bout that leg? Saw ya were walkin’ with a bit of a limp.”

“It’s my side. It’s just stiff.” He had fallen on it one too many times when being knocked to the ground, crushed to the floor, shoved against the wall. He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Couldn’t hurt to take a look?” Alfyn prompted with a friendly smile. 

“No.” Therion said, hooking his legs up onto the bed. There was no way. This guy was a stranger, he was a freaking apothecary, no way.

Linde reacted to Therion’s inner panic, rising and growling.

“Okay. That’s okay,” Alfyn said quickly, backing off. As Therion relaxed, so did the leopard. Alfyn grinned nervously. “Let me getcha something for the muscle pain, then.”

Therion waited for his breathing to steady while Alfyn worked. He pulled his tunic back on, mostly for the secure feeling it gave him.

Alfyn had watched the way the thief retreated and refused to make eye contact, and the peculiarity of his wounds. How he reacted at the slightest touch. How he had gotten a better look now at the distinct handprints bruised into his neck and on his waist. The burn-- the brand, to be frank-- was deliberate. He had heard the rumors about the criminals in Northreach. He started putting the pieces together. 

“Hey man,” Alfyn said, “just want to make sure you know. You’re safe here. I know you don’t completely trust me and all, but ain’t no one gonna hurt you here.”

Therion felt the apothecary’s eyes on him, and he couldn’t look up. He couldn’t see the pity in his face. He swallowed hard.

“Are we done here?”

“One more thing, bud,” Alfyn said. “I need to say sorry. ‘Bout what I said before.”

Therion dared to look up at him. Alfyn’s face was pained with genuine remorse.

“I said somethin’ ‘bout messin’ with the wrong crowds and all… it ain’t right. I’m sorry.” He straight at Therion’s eyes. “Ain’t no one deserves it.”

It was the quiet earnestness of his voice that got to him. Therion had never said it out loud, but something subconscious taunted him ever since he was young-- any pain he ever felt, was something that he had earned, one way or another. It’s why he never felt bad about stealing. His life had sucked before he started, it kept sucking afterwords. Only fair. He had deserved every bad thing that had ever happened to him.

And then this practical stranger, despite his morals and qualms against helping criminals-- which Therion knew well that he was-- he had healed him. Twice. And then apologized. Emotion tangled Therion's features, though he tried to fight it back. Alfyn noticed.

“Hey, bud.” Alfyn shook his head, opening his arms. “It's okay. Bring it in.”

The apothecary leaned forward, and Therion let himself fall into the embrace, burying his face in Alfyn's chest. Everything came spilling forth at once-- the pain, the abandonment, the loss, the humiliation. There was nothing left in him to hold back the tears.

“It's okay, buddy,” Alfyn said, patting Therion's back. “Let it all out. It’s okay.”

\--- --- ---

H’aanit had made a valiant effort to stay awake. She had run through the night back to Stillsnow, then taken a horse to fetch an apothecary in Flamesgrace. Through a twist of fate, she had found Alfyn on the way, venturing up after hearing tales of an old fortune teller and wondering if her wisdom included any old folk remedies. They had hastened back, and now as Therion rested in Alaic’s room, Alfyn chatted with Susanna over tea in her study, and Alaic brooded, H’aanit’s eyelids grew heavy. As she sunk into slumber, she slid sideways on the sofa, and Primrose let her head fall into her lap. The dancer stroked her hair as she slept.

Since their kiss in the hot spring-- interrupted by Therion storming out-- they hadn’t had another. Despite her grace and agility, her knowledge of outdoor survival and archery, H’aanit had such an innocence about her when it came to intimacy. She blushed at every touch and gentle caress. It was as adorable as it could be frustrating. Still, as Primrose brushed the stray auburn lock back from H’aanit’s face, she couldn’t help but smile.

There was a knock at the door, so light, Primrose wasn’t sure if it hadn’t just been the wind. Alaic was closer, and got up to answer it gruffly. In response, she recognized a voice she hadn’t expected to hear again. She tried to slide out from under H’aanit without waking her, but anger made her careless. The huntress awoke to see Primrose storming across to the door.

“You bastard,” she hissed at the black and gold cloak that stood in the doorway. “I expected better from you. How could you--”

When Cyrus lowered his hood, she fell silent. He may have sounded familiar, but he hardly looked like himself. There were dark circles around his sunken eyes, with a hollow look to them. His warm brown eyes had seemed to fade to a dull gray. His skin was deathly pale, his lips thin and drawn. Primrose unconsciously raised a hand over her mouth.

"Is he here?" Cyrus said, ignoring Primrose’s reaction.

Primrose nodded, her eyes fixed on him.

"He is resting," H'aanit said, having risen from the couch. “He hath seen an apothecary. Thou shoulde seeth him, too.”

Cyrus waved her away, sinking down on a chair. He was bent over, his elbows braced on his legs, fingers folded before his bowed head. He stared down at his hands.

"Same apothecary we met in Wellspring, actually." Primrose slid next to him onto the arm of the chair. “What happened?”

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine."

Cyrus looked up at her, and the intense darkness of his stare made her flinch backwards.

"What did you do?" Primrose whispered. Cyrus just looked back down at his hands.

Alfyn and Susanna peered in from the other room. 

“Oh, hey man, how ya doin’?” Alfyn said, far too upbeat. His smile only wavered slightly when Cyrus looked up at him.

“Can I see him?” Cyrus said quickly. “Where is he?”

“Your friend? He’s in there.” Alfyn pointed. “But you should probably let him--”

Alfyn and Primrose both flinched backwards as Cyrus stood suddenly, making for the door the apothecary had pointed to.

“He needs his rest, man!” Alfyn called. 

Cyrus waved a hand at Primrose. “Pay him whatever he wants.” He hesitated only when he reached the door.

Cyrus knocked softly on the door to Alaic’s room. There was no response from within. Slowly, cautiously, he opened it, peering through into the room. A single candle burnt on the bedside table, but it was otherwise dark. Therion lay on the bed. As the door opened, he had sat up, his hand on his stolen dagger, candlelight casting strange shadows on his battered face. When he saw it was Cyrus, the tension vanished from his shoulders.

"Therion," Cyrus said quietly. His voice conveyed so many thoughts in a single word.

The thief's eyes glinted wet in the candlelight. There was a long, heavy silence. Cyrus took a few steps forward into the small room, letting the door shut behind him. Then Therion shook his head, only the slightest hint of relief in his voice. "You look like shit, man.”

Cyrus smiled weakly. His steps were uncertain as he entered the room.

“And that was a shitty thing to do.” Therion's gaze didn't waver.

Cyrus collapsed-- tripped, maybe-- catching himself on his knees, reaching for the edge of the bed at Therion's side. He was out of breath. He didn't look up.

“I know.” He stared at his palms, at the dark veins pulsing through pale skin. “I never should have left you. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, though I do not deserve it…”

“Why?” Therion asked, voice firm.

Cyrus looked up at him, open mouthed. “You're absolutely correct. Why should you forgive me? I--”

“No, why did you leave? Why then? Why...?”

“I told you I was planning to return.” Cyrus said. “It doesn’t matter. I should have stayed.” He shook his head. “I just needed to apologize. I know that… I have never been very good at realizing the effects my words and actions have on others, positive or negative. Yet I also know that is no excuse. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I… I was overcome.” He sighed and pushed himself up from the bed. “Anything I say will simply sound like an excuse. You deserve better than excuses. You are under no obligation to forgive me.” He nodded solemnly and turned to go.

_I deserve better? Why wasn't he arguing? Why aren't we yelling at each other?_

“Wait.” Therion reached for his arm to stop him. “Is it this curse? I… I don't know what’s happening.”

Cyrus turned back to him, let him pull him closer and take hold of his hand. “I don't understand either, I'm afraid.” Exhaling heavily, he sat down next to Therion, who did not let go of him. “It's as if it's using my thoughts, my memories against me. I couldn't tell what was my own, and what was its voice. It was like being caught in a current or a whirlpool, except thinking I was on solid ground the whole time, not realizing…” He stopped himself. “It sounds like an excuse. I don't wish to make excuses. My actions were my own.”

Therion stared at him as his gaze returned to his hands. “What's it saying to you now?”

Cyrus paused. “It isn't. It's been quiet since…” _Since the last one fell at my hand._ “Since I realized what I was really doing, the consequences my actions would have. In all honesty, the silence is even more disturbing.”

Therion let the silence mull for a while. He ran his tongue over the mending cut in his lower lip, still swollen. “I'm still pissed at you.”

“You have every right to be.”

Therion glanced over at him. He was still staring downward. _Why is he like this? Can't he just yell at me, tell me it's my fault?_

“I thought…” Therion began, “I thought it might be what I said. What I told you. That… that it wasn't what you wanted to hear. That I scared you away, or something.”

“Of course not,” Cyrus said quickly, then considered. “Although… every time someone has said that to me before, it meant the relationship was over. That now they had expectations for me that I couldn't fulfill. That I would just end up hurting them.” He laughed bitterly. “It seems I did that this time anyway. For that I am deeply sorry.”

“What expectations?” _I just wanted him to know before I fucked it up. Before it got too late, and we couldn't go back._ “Shit, Cyrus. I'm not asking you to be perfect.” 

Cyrus turned to him at this, staring. There was a furrow in his brow, the same one that grew there when he encountered a puzzling idea in his studies, or a particularly hard-to-decipher passage. Then his face softened, marveling at Therion.

“I fuck up all the time,” Therion said. “How would that even be fair? I just want you to be with me.” He could feel the heat rising to his face.

“I want that more than anything.” Cyrus reached out with a hand to brush the hair back from Therion's face, but stopped before he made contact, dropping his hand.

“Why do you do that?” Therion frowned. He read the question on Cyrus’ face, and cut him off before he could ask it. “Like if you actually touched me, you'd have to wash the filth off your hands.”

“No!” Cyrus looked horrified. “I… I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“It hurts more that you won’t.” Therion shook his head, and dropped his eyes. “I get it, though.”

Cyrus leaned in suddenly, meeting his lips in a kiss. His hands curled up into his hair, and Therion sank forward, grabbing handfuls of his clothes. The kiss hurt a little, pressure against his swollen lip, but he didn’t care. There was nothing he wanted more at the moment than the physical reassurance, knowing he was there, knowing he had come back-- it was almost enough to heal the pain of his absence. Almost. 

When they parted, there was the slightest hint of color in Cyrus’ drained face.

“I am so sorry,” he breathed.

“Shut up already.” Therion said. He gave a little half smile at Cyrus. “Gods, you look like shit.”

Cyrus gave a tired laugh. “I feel like it.”

“I mean, I know I look like hot garbage right now, so I’m not one to talk. I haven't looked in a mirror, but I bet it’s rough.”

“You’re beautiful,” Cyrus said, lifting Therion’s hands to kiss the back of each. “But still, I wouldn't advise a mirror for a while.” 

Therion smirked. He looked down at his hands within Cyrus’. “You tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Me too. Come on.” Therion shifted back carefully on the bed, making way for Cyrus to lie down beside him. The scholar did so, hesitantly, kicking off his shoes and unhooking his cloak. Therion pulled Cyrus’ arm over him, high on his chest, holding on tight. Cyrus nuzzled his face in close to Therion’s neck, leaving a kiss right below his earlobe.

Therion felt warm for the first time in days. It was almost enough.

\--- --- ---

He woke, only partially, with a muffled scream hanging in his throat. His muscles jerked involuntarily, clawing at the collar on his neck. Fear shot through him and coated his body in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” Cyrus was holding his shoulders. Therion’s eyes were open, his sense of himself returning. He felt every tensed muscle in his body slowly relax. His breaths came in heavy gasps. Cyrus pulled him closer.

“You’re alright,” he said again, pushing the damp hair back from Therion’s forehead and kissing his cheek. Therion curled his hands around Cyrus’ arm, feeling to see if it was real.

“You’re still here,” Therion whispered.

“For as long as you’ll let me.” Cyrus kissed him, slow and reassuring. Therion turned, wrapping his arm over Cyrus, leaning against his chest. The scholar ran his hand over Therion’s back, caressing gently. Therion waited for his breathing to steady, pushing the remnants of the nightmare from his mind. It took a while for him to come back to himself.

“Have you ever heard of Rockbridge?” He said suddenly, jarring Cyrus from his waking dream.

“Mmm?” 

“The town,” Therion said, second guessing himself. 

Cyrus stirred, shifting to allow some breathing room between them. “I feel as though I may have. In the Cliftlands, correct?”

“Yeah, the southwestern part, right on the border with the Riverlands. The bridge was the border, actually, but the river dried up, and the bridge collapsed, and, well, all that’s left is the merchant road through from Quarrycrest to Riverford.”

Cyrus studied him. “Apologies, I must have missed something. Why are we discussing this?”

Therion swallowed. “That's where I'm from.”

Cyrus smiled down at him slowly.

Therion looked down at Cyrus’ chest, the sliver of skin peeking out between the loosened buttons of his shirt. “Well, I'm not really from anywhere, but that's where I was born. Lived there until I was thirteen, never looked back.”

Cyrus kissed his forehead. “I have heard of it before, but I can't recall what it might be famous for.”

“Poorest village in the Cliftlands. Maybe all of Orsterra.”

“Is it now?”

Therion scoffed. “You don't understand the phrase ‘dirt poor’ until you've been to Rockbridge. It’s nothing but a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing actually there but greasy taverns and bug-infested inns. Lots of people tried to pour money into it to make themselves feel better. Like, the church sent a bunch of clerics to try and scare off the drunks and the whores and stuff, and make us all religious. It worked a little, ‘cause they had money to give out to single mothers so they would actually take care of their kids or something, as long as they went to these ‘Come to Aelfric’ meetings. Probably the only reason my ma didn't just kick my ass out, cause she wouldn't get the charity if she didn't have a kid, right? Not that any of that money ever made it to me. She barely remembered to feed me, most days. She never wanted kids. Every time she got knocked up after she had me, she went to the apothecary. Told me she didn't want to deal with another one of me.” He trailed off. “Sorry. I’m just rambling.”

Cyrus was looking down at him, mesmerized. “Please don't stop.”

Therion scoffed. “The Academy sent people, too. This scholar guy came to teach us all how to read, and write, and add and stuff, and if we stayed for the whole lesson we got free lunch. That was a pretty good deal. Don’t remember his name. Nice guy, though. He brought us breakfast if we came early to classes, and that meant I had an excuse to leave before my ma got up with her hangover.”

“The Outreach Program for Disadvantaged Youth,” Cyrus mused. “It still exists. They have students participate to offset tuition costs.”

“Yeah? Probably never would have learned to read if it wasn't for that. But then I started hanging out with this group of guys, and we could steal food pretty easily, so I didn't need to go to school any more after that.” Therion shrugged. “Probably should have, or something. They sent recruiters, too. Could have gone and fought in the army, or Knights Ardante, or something. But I had left by the time I would have been old enough. Anyone who could get out wanted to get out. Rockbridge doesn’t have anything except taverns and inns and gambling halls and brothels, and those were all owned by the same two Lords who took all the profits to compete with each other. They didn't even live there. Not much grew there, either, and especially not fruit. Not enough rain or the right kind of soil or something. So when I started stealing, it was food. Fruit. ‘Cause I would never get any otherwise. It was too expensive to buy. Any day I could swipe myself a pear, or a pomegranate, or an apple… that was the best day.”

Cyrus was smiling down at him. He was oddly quiet.

“Sorry,” Therion said. “I… I’m talking too much. I guess… I was just thinking. I don’t talk about that shit to anyone anymore. And there’s no one who knows. Not anymore. And I… it didn't sit right with me, I guess. I wanted you to know.”

Cyrus just kissed him. “Thank you.”

“You're… welcome?” Only now, Therion felt the heat in his face. Cyrus pulled him closer.

There was a long silence before Cyrus spoke again.

“I am going to fight this curse,” he said softly. “You deserve better. I cannot make up for how I have hurt you. You deserve better than me, but I can try my best. I will not allow it to take me away from you again.” 

It took Therion a while to voice the words. “...Promise?”

Cyrus brushed the hair from his eyes. “But of course."


	30. Light and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What? You mean you didn't ask for awkward sexual frustrations between Alfyn and Ophilia?

Therion woke, surprised to find pale fingers clutching the front of his tunic. He twisted around beneath the arm over his chest to face a still-asleep Cyrus. He shifted in closer, pressing as much of his body against him as he could. He wanted to savor it. He might still be dreaming.

Cyrus stirred, smiling down at him. Therion kissed him. Cyrus’ hand curled through his hair as they pulled away.

“You’re still here,” Therion whispered.

Before Cyrus could respond, there was a soft but insistent knock at the door. They both turned, staring in silence. The knock came again before Cyrus rose to open it. Therion sat up, his body not protesting nearly as angrily at the movement as it had before.

Alfyn was standing outside the door. If Cyrus’ appearance started him-- he was looking only slightly better than he had the night before, but now only half-dressed in rumpled clothes, hair hanging loose about his shoulders-- Alfyn didn’t let it affect his good-natured smile.

“Hey there, friend. Sorry to wake ya, but some of your pal’s medicine works best if he takes it every twelve hours.” Alfyn waggled a bottle in his hand. Cyrus studied him for a moment, then stepped aside, holding the door.

Ignoring any awkwardness he may have felt, Alfyn nodded to Therion. “Feelin’ any better? Kinda want to take a look to see if them salves have been helpin’ overnight, otherwise I can get ya something stronger. Strong stuff kinda itches, though.” He handed the bottle to Therion, and looked back at Cyrus still standing by the door.

“Miss H’aanit’s got some breakfast goin, if you’d like a bite,” Alfyn said. 

“I’m fine.” Cyrus crossed the room to collect up his shoes, vest, and cloak.

“When is the last time you even ate something?” Therion asked. Cyrus found that he didn’t have an answer for him. He wasn’t sure he remembered. “Go eat.”

Cyrus hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Cyrus’ gaze lingered on him, then shot questioningly to Alfyn. He finally nodded and left the room.

Primrose, H’aanit, Alaic, and Susanna were all clustered around the fortune teller’s tiny kitchen table, enjoying a breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, tea, and fresh hotcakes with blackberry syrup. Linde, though full from that morning’s hunt, still sniffed at the tantalizing bacon. The group turned to Cyrus as he entered, and he suddenly realized how unkempt he must look. Muttering an “excuse me,” he swept into the front room. Primrose stood, hastily made up a plate, and followed him with it.

He sat on the sofa, tying his shoes. She slowed as she approached him, stopping when he looked up at her. 

“You don’t look nearly as bad as you did last night,” she said, holding out the plate to him. “But you still don’t look like yourself.”

Cyrus took the dish from her and set it down next to him, ignoring it as he smoothed his shirt and slid his arms through his vest. Primrose sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him.

“Where did you go?” Her eyes bored into him, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Does it matter?” He looked down as he fiddled with the buttons, to avoid her.

“He told you that he loved you, and you disappeared. I’m pretty sure that matters.”

Cyrus froze. “He told you that.”

“Yes, he did. He was feeling pretty shitty. Did you go in there and tell him what he needed to hear?”

Cyrus met her eyes as he began combing his fingers through his hair, collecting it into a ponytail. As his hair had grown over the past few months, he had started tying more of it back. “I apologized, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know it isn’t.” Primrose let out an exasperated sigh. “He needs to hear it.”

“I promised him I wouldn’t lie to him.” Cyrus fished a thin black ribbon from his pocket one-handed, wrapping it around the gathered hair at the nape of his neck.

Primrose crossed her arms. “You used forbidden magic-- that might have killed you-- in order to find a hideout full of Dragonstone-crazed thieves-- who definitely would have killed you-- and you somehow convinced H’aanit and I to join you in fighting them to get him back. You obviously care about him.”

“I would have done the same for you.” Cyrus tied the ribbon expertly, not dropping his eyes from hers. “I would have done the same for H’aanit. Am I in love with her? Am I in love with you?”

“You know it’s not the same.” Primrose furrowed her brow.

“You seem to be making a lot of assumptions about what I know.” Cyrus reached for the breakfast plate, balancing it on his knees.

“You’re going to sit there and tell me you’ve never loved anyone.” 

Cyrus pointedly took a bite of toast.

“I don’t believe you.” Primrose shook her head. “What about your parents?”

Cyrus put a hand over his mouth to keep from spitting crumbs everywhere as he stifled a laugh. Once he was able to swallow, he flashed her a patronizing smile. “Narcissists. My father cared more about his own social standing than the futures of either myself or my mother, and she would have gladly traded away my happiness for her own comfort. No. There was no love. Blame my shortcomings on them if you wish, but it will not change anything about what I am.”

Primrose stared at him a long while. "Then maybe that's what you need to tell him."

Cyrus nodded sagely. "So he can stop squandering his affection on me."

"That's not--"

"No, you're absolutely right. Well versed in manners of the heart as always. Thank you for your wise counsel." He turned back to his breakfast.

Primrose hated it when he was sarcastic, because he didn’t change his tone of voice at all. It cast doubt back on everything he had said before, or even that she was reading the sarcasm correctly. Cyrus didn’t seem fazed. She watched him eat, noticing the little dark marks near his temples, remnants of the forbidden spell. They seemed deeper than they had before, making his cheekbones seem sharper, his eyes darker.

“You need to wash your face,” she said, motioning to her own temples. “Those marks are still there.”

“Yes, they would be.”

“What does that mean?”

Cyrus sighed. “When you hear the word ‘necromancer,’ what kind of person springs to mind?” He nodded to her. “What does he look like?”

Primrose stared at him.

“There’s a reason for the stereotype.” He busied himself with his breakfast. “As I said, the magic comes at a cost.”

The door to Alaic’s room opened and Alfyn and Therion emerged. Therion looked first to Cyrus, before the smell of breakfast pulled him into the kitchen. Alfyn flopped down next to the scholar, almost overturning his half-eaten plate of food.

“Whoops, sorry ‘bout that.” Alfyn flashed a nervous grin. “You doin’ alright there? Anything I can help you out with?”

Cyrus studied him for a moment, looking for any ulterior motive behind the tone of genuine desire to be helpful. He could find none. “Nothing some decent rest and nutrition can’t fix,” he said, slapping on his carefully curated smile. Then he met the apothecary’s eyes deliberately. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Shucks, ain’t nothin’,” he said. “Whole point of my journey is to go around helpin’ folks and learnin’ what I can so’s I can do it better.”

Therion came into the front room, carrying a plate heaped with food. He plopped himself down on the rug and dug in, glaring at Linde as she pawed by to sniff it. H’aanit, following them, whistled sharply through her teeth, and the leopard hastened to her side. 

“Don’t think I could ever get used to that.” Alfyn watched Linde with amazement. He leaned back into the sofa. “Welp, where all y'all off to next?”

“Bolderfall,” Therion said around a mouthful of food, making insistant eye contact with the others.

Cyrus looked at him, concerned. “Are you certain?”

Therion stabbed a fork into a pile of scrambled eggs. “Just want to be done with this shit.”

“What about the beast?” Primrose asked, eyeing Cyrus. “We need to stop it before it gets any stronger.”

Cyrus scoffed, but didn’t respond. H’aanit cleared her throat.

“I doth not knowe if we haven the strength,” she said. “Mayhap we stoppen in my home village, asken the hunters for aid. If they knowen it is to saven Master Z’aanta…” 

“Shoot, I’ll lend a hand,” Alfyn said. All eyes in the room turned to him. He shrugged. “If Phili’s up for it, I’m sure she’d some along, too. Gods know we've fought our share of critters and bad guys in our roamin’. Heck, there was this big ol’ wolf back in Saintbridge? Didn’t stand a chance. Phili’s kind of a firebrand when she gets worked up, and I don’t mean to brag or nothin, but I'm mighty handy with an axe myself.”

Cyrus appraised him anew. “You speak of the cleric girl, correct?”

“Phi-- Ophilia. Yes, sir.”

“She's a light mage? She has mastered the offensive spells as well as the healing ones?”

“You betcha.”

Cyrus nodded to H’aanit. “Light magic could be very useful. I'd be willing to wager a decent sum the fiend has a weakness to the holy arts.”

H’aanit grunted. “I doth not wish to risken the lives of others needlessly.”

“Y’all haven’t seen us fight.” Alfyn grinned. “Come on down to Flamesgrace, she can use her magic to get Therion back in fightin’ form all quick-like, and then I’m sure we can help y’all out with your little beastie. Can’t hardly be a match for the lot of us, huh?”

Cyrus burst out laughing. The group looked to him, unnerved. The smile slowly slid off of Alfyn’s face.

“You’re doing that out loud,” Therion said, crunching down on his last piece of toast.

Cyrus’ laughter ceased abruptly. He was suddenly composed. “Apologies.” He looked back down at his palms.

“Well.” Primrose clapped her hands together and stood. “Flamesgrace, then S’warkii, then off to find this beast, and swing by Bolderfall on the way. Sound good?”

“What about thine quest?” H’aanit asked quietly.

Primrose shook her head. She thought about how paralyzed she had been when that crow had been standing over her. Blade to her throat, and she couldn't move. “Not… not yet.”

\--- --- ---

_Shucks, I don’t think I could ever forget the first time I saw her, standin’ there on the bridge on a fresh spring mornin’, shinin’ as bright as the sun itself. Once I got over seein’ a girl that pretty wanderin’ into a backwater nowhere like Clearbook, I still couldn’t make my darn feet move until Zeph practically pushed me on over to her. I tripped over my tongue and darn near forgot my own name, feelin’ like the biggest fool in all the Riverlands. My face musta been redder than a boiled beet. But she didn’t laugh. She just smiled, all warm and understanding, and said:_

_“Hi there. I’m Sister Ophilia Clement. Pleasure to meet you. Are you from here? Might you show me to the provisioner?”_

_My heart nearly beat outta my chest._

_Nina got herself bit later that day, her friend runnin’ up after I had finished embarrassing the heck outta myself tryin’ to hold a conversation. I was right scared, but I knew I had to go after that viper. I couldn’t hardly believe it when Ophilia volunteered to come on with me. I wasn’t wantin’ to put her in danger, just havin’ met her and all, but she said she was a healer and knew some protective magic. Her even standin’ there was livin’ proof that she had made it all the way from the Frostlands on her own, and there was no arguin’ with that fire in her eyes. We killed that dang ol’ snake together, and I was just blown away by how quick she was to help out a perfect stranger like that. You don’t find that kinda good very often._

_It took all my courage to ask her if I could come with her on her travels. I know it was a strange question, maybe even not a right proper one, her bein’ a Sister and all. I thought about my words long and hard, but when it came time to ask her, they all came out in a big ol’ jumble. I musta apologized a hundred times, tried to sell her on my carryin’ her stuff for her and keepin’ her safe from bandits, then apologized again for insinuatin’ that she couldn’t take care of herself, and finally just ended up in such a big ol’ mess of words that I was just gonna throw my hands up and stomp back home to think about what an idiot I was. She just gave me that same, patient smile, and said them magic words:_

_“Alfyn, would you like to come with me on my pilgrimage?”_

_My knees darn near turned to jelly on the spot. I said my goodbyes to Zeph and Nina, and to my mama at the graveyard, and we were off. Even if the weather was ranin’, it was always sun shining in my heart. I was happy as a clam in mud just to be sharin’ my time with her._

_We got to talkin’ and knowin’ each other better, found out we had both lost our parents, both learned healin’ to help out other people because of what happened to us each as kids. She talked about her sister the same way I talked about Zeph, and we both got over our homesickness together. We fought wolves and thieves, and all sorts of nasty critters along the trail. We made a hell of a good team, always watchin’ the other’s back, always catchin’ the other when they fell, always cheerin’ the other up when they were feelin’ down._

_Of course, I never imagined there’d be any kinda romance or nothin’. I ‘spose maybe I hoped, ‘cause if she ain’t the prettiest darn thing I ever laid eyes on, then I don’t know what is. But her bein’ a Sister and all, I didn’t expect nothin’. But still, we started gettin’ close. It started with the little things-- her hand on my arm, my shoulder, my knee, just real quick while we were talkin’. She still wore her gloves and all that, but it was somethin’ that made my head spin. And if I sat down by the fire, she’d come sit next to me. There were a few nights in there she ended up driftin’ off, layin’ on my arm, her head on my shoulder, before she woke up, a little flustered, and made up her bedroll. I held as stock still as I could so she didn’t wake up, so she could stay by me as long as she could. I tried tellin’ her-- stumblin’ over my words again-- that I didn’t mind it when she nodded off like that, and she didn’t hafta move away. Oh, boy, did she get red. She made extra careful the next couple nights to stay on the other side of the fire. Don’t know if talkin’ about it embarrassed her, or maybe she thought I was judgin’ her or somethin’, but I didn’t mention it again. Slowly, she started makin’ her way back over by me._

_Then there was one night. We were up in the Highlands, so it was real chilly. We were crouched up close to the fire, talkin’ about who knows what-- I just know I was only thinkin’ about her. I said somethin’ to make her laugh, and she did, and then while she was still smilin’, I reached out and brushed a little bit of hair back from her cheek. She stopped, and I was so scared I had messed up, that she would want to go on without me, and I pulled my hand back as quick as I could. But as I was apologizin’, she took my hand. She held it between her two, and just looked at it, hers all small and skinny in those black gloves, and mine all big and rough and calloused. She held it there a little bit, while I couldn’t hardly breathe at all, and then she let it drop. I figured that was the end of that. But nope-- she slid that glove right off of her hand and laid it in her lap and took mine again, with her smooth warm skin against mine._

_And that was all it took to open that door. Many a night after, she’d sidle up next to me, take off a glove-- only one, ever-- and we’d just sit and talk and I’d hold her hand. Seems real simple, like kid stuff to get all excited over, I know. But to tell the truth, I hadn’t really ever been even that close with a girl. Zeph had his crush on Mercedes, but then after she moved away to the big city, it seemed kinda rude of me to go courtin’ girls when he was pinin’ away. Plus, well, Clearbrook ain’t exactly a bustlin’ locale for girls my age. I knew all of ‘em, and didn’t get on with none of them in particular. But with Phili-- she told me I could call her Phili a bit after that one night, actually-- it felt like I had known her my whole life. When we came up on someone who needed our help, it wasn’t even a question. I’d want to travel around with her even if she never even wanted to go as far as hold my hand, and I’da been perfectly happy with that, just bein’ her friend. Plus, her bein’ a Sister and all… I never expected nothin’ outta it._

_I kissed her on the beach in Goldshore. Er, she kissed me, I ‘spose. It was after we had finished helpin’ out those two little twins, and I don’t know what happened to me, but I could just feel the emotions gettin’ to me. I was cryin’, sure, and she just held my hand, like she does, and let me. Then when I had got it all out, she pulled me into a hug, and I wrapped my arms around her, and it felt so good to just hold her, and feel her there with me. And where we were, back in a little alcove, protected from anyone seein’ and judgin’, and she kissed my cheek. Not just a little one. A serious one. And I held her tighter, and she turned to me, and I don’t know if she moved or I moved but all of a sudden I was kissin’ her and she was kissin’ me and I couldn’t feel my feet no more._

_The next few days she said extra morning prayers. I could tell she was feelin’ guilty about it, so I didn’t want to say nothin’ and make her feel bad. I know growin’ up religious means there’s lots of rules about what you can do, and what you can feel, and even what you can think. I can pray to the Gods and all that, but I was never one for that kinda piety. But, I knew it was important to her, and I didn’t want to put her in any kinda position where she had to pick between me and her faith._

_But when we were together after that, alone on the road, you could feel the worry. She was bein’ pulled in two different directions by her thoughts. Heck, I was, too. I wanted to help her so bad, but anythin’ I said might add to it. I reckon I didn’t know what I should do, ‘cept be there to keep her smilin’._

_We went on through the Flatlands, when we got ourselves up to Atlasdam, there was some kinda hoopla goin’ on with tourists and merchants and all sorts of people. Inn rooms were tough to come by, and some of the locals were hirin’ out spare bedrooms to make a quick leaf. Not only that, but the city watch wasn’t letting no one camp outside the walls. It woulda meant another hour or two of hikin’ after a long day, and we had both been lookin’ forward to a hot meal and a bath the whole time. We usually got ourselves two rooms, or if that weren’t possible, a room with two beds in it. Turns out that wasn’t happenin’ in Atlasdam. I figured it would be best for me to tuck in on the floor, but I could tell that this was just another bummer in a long line of bummers. I had been jabberin’ on all day about how much I had been yearnin’ for a comfy bed. She told me to lay down next to her. She said it would be fine as long as we both stayed dressed, and I promised her I would._

_Now, I know where your mind is goin’. I didn’t break my promise. Well, I did take my vest off, but it’s got pokey stuff all in the pockets, so you can’t hardly blame me for that. But I did lay down next to her, and blew out the candle, all while my heart was goin’ a mile a minute. I was listenin’ to my breath, tryin’ to make it seem like I wasn’t dyin’ of nervousness, and I coulda sworn she had to be asleep when I felt her press up next to me. It was too dark to know if her eyes were open or not, but she was right there, her body against mine, all warm and soft, even closer than when we had held each other in Goldshore. It had to be a mistake. She’d just moved in her sleep to get more comfy, that was all, and she didn’t even know that herself was all up against my… well, my self. I was even more nervous that she’d wake up when I felt my self startin’ to react. Completely outta my control, I know, nothin’ I could do about it. But I thought if she knew what was goin’ on with me down there she’s be grossed out, start thinkin’ me to be some kinda pervert. My cheeks were burnin’ somethin’ fierce. But I couldn’t make myself move away from her. Bein’ so close with her like this… I wouldn’t trade it away that easy. And I woulda been okay. I would have calmed down eventually, woulda been able to get some sleep, and maybe she’d move away before the mornin’. No problem._

_Until she reached back for my arm. So she was awake. And she grabbed my arm from behind her, and pulled it up over and put my hand on her belly. I was more confused than ever. I hadta say somethin’._

_“Phili?” I whispered, not realizin’ that she had pulled me so close, my mouth was nearly on her ear._

_“Alfyn,” she said, just as soft, squeezing my hand. “Is this okay?”_

_“Well, shucks…” I swallowed hard, tryin’ not to choke on my own words. “It is if it’s okay with you. ‘Cause I don’t wanna--”_

_I didn’t get to finish, ‘cause she twisted around and kissed me. She pressed up so close, puttin’ her arm up around my shoulders, and her knee sorta… how do I tell you what happened? Well, her leg sorta moved up between my legs, and her thigh was sorta rubbin’ there, you know, and she was movin’ ‘cause we were kissin’, and I guess I was movin’, too, without even knowin’ it, and before I realized it was even happinin’-- dang it all, it’s still kinda embarrassin’ to think about-- well, it happened. I hadn’t hardly done it myself travelin’ with her, ya see-- didn’t want to offend if she might happen to stumble in on me-- and I guess those few times when I had my own inn room with a lock on the door weren’t enough to not make me crazy touchy down there. I could feel my whole body shake when it did happen, just rollin’ over me all at once, and I know I pulled back an’ I musta had the craziest look on my face but thank the Gods it was dark and she couldn’t see. I was scared she’d feel it though, so I pushed back from her, up, outta bed._

_“Alfyn?” she asked, and I could hear the emotion in her voice. I reached out to her and found her hands, squeezed ‘em tight._

_“Sorry,” I said. “I just… need a minute.” I stumbled away to try and clean myself up some, hopin’ her vision in the dark was just as bad as mine. When I came back, she had rolled over again, put some distance between herself and where I had been, and I got back in the bed without touchin’ her. I felt like I had gone and ruined everything. She hadta know, and she was grossed out by me, and it was all over. I felt lower than low. But when I woke up, her arm was crossed over my chest. Even though she still had them dang gloves on, I was happy to hold her hand._

_She knew. She didn’t say nothin’, but she knew. Or maybe she didn’t, but we had got way too close, or maybe it’s ‘cause I pulled away from her, or who knows. The next day she said some things at breakfast about her oaths and her responsibilities as a beacon of virtue and all this other stuff that was basically a fancy way of saying we done messed up. And I smiled and told her it was all okay and I got it and there wouldn’t be no more problems but inside my head I was kickin’ myself ‘cause if I had done something different somewhere maybe we could just go back to holdin’ hands and I’d be all fine with that._

_Anyway, we went on to Flamesgrace, and her pa was feelin’ a bit better. She asked if I could go take a look at him, and I’ll be darned if it wasn’t the strangest sickness I ever seen. I had nothin’, and it just showed me how much I still gotta learn about this whole apothecaryin’ thing. She was catchin’ up with her sister-- I met her, nice gal-- and I was talkin’ to some of the clerics and they got to talkin’ about old Susanna up in Stillsnow. Still feelin’ awkward from Atlasdam, and knowin’ she had been missin’ her family somethin’ fierce, I journeyed on up so's I wouldn't be in the way. An’ I got some good wisdom from talkin’ with Susanna, and met back up with them folks we helped out back in Wellspring. They seem like good enough folks, underneath, but you can tell there’s a lot weighin’ ‘em down. But I know if anyone can help ‘em with their burdens, it’ll be Phili. She can brighten anyone’s day._

_Only been a few days we been apart, but… I sure do miss her._

\--- --- ---

The cathedral in Flamesgrace was often hailed as the grandest on the continent, something Cyrus felt the need to expound upon in great detail once they entered the city proper.

“Shucks, Professor, how many times you been here?” Alfyn asked, legitimately impressed about twenty minutes into the impromptu lecture.

“Oh, I’ve never spent much time here. Just passed through. But ancient buildings such as these have immense historical significance. The architecture here is fascinating. The combination of three different ages of art and design makes for an interesting aesthetic. Don’t you think so, Therion?"

Therion trundled behind the two other men, scarf pulled up over his face. "It's still cold," he complained. Inwardly, however, he was thankful for Cyrus’ return to unrequested exposition. He hoped it meant he was back to himself, after all.

Primrose hung back with H’aanit. She leaned in to whisper, “I still don’t like Flamesgrace.”

H’aanit nodded her understanding. “Yet we needen all the aide we can muster to confronten this beast.”

“You really think a cleric is going to be much use in a fight?” _Or that a dancer is much good against a cursed beast?_

H’aanit shrugged. “We needen all we can get.”

They made their way to the famed cathedral, with its high, vaulted ceilings, walls lined with devotional candles, and penitents kneeling in the pews. The vast chapel was eerily silent, save for the footsteps of the middle-aged male cleric who recognized Alfyn. He nodded to the apothecary, beaming a wide smile in greeting.

"Hello again, Mister Greengrass," the cleric said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Sister Ophilia will be pleased to know that you've returned. And with guests! How splendid."

"Yeah, I hope that's okay," Alfyn said awkwardly. The cleric just smiled.

"Of course. All are welcome in the house of the Gods. Please follow me."

The cleric turned his back, so he didn't see Primrose's eye roll. He led the group down a side hallway where the silence was only a little less oppressive. They entered a quiet parlor with a few benches, some shelves of well-worn prayer books and hymnals, and white candles lining the walls. The middle-aged cleric excused himself to fetch Sister Ophilia, leaving them with an imposing statue of Aelfric settled in a recess in the wall. This was surrounded by smaller figures of the other gods-- though it was clear whoever had arranged the statues had clear favorites. The statuettes of Sealticge, Aeber, Winniheld, and Brand were tucked back behind the others, clear that the powers that be were taking a stand against violence and vice, but still holding true to religious canon. Primrose frowned at it, and nudged Therion.

“Aren’t you offended by this?” she whispered.

Therion glanced at the statues, and shrugged. “Why? I got better things to worry about.”

Primrose clearly didn’t like this answer. Therion turned to where Cyrus had sunk onto a bench, kicking back to rest his legs, but also staring down at his hands. Therion sat next to him. 

“Why do you keep doing that? That’s a weird thing.”

Cyrus glanced up at the others, making sure that H’aanit and Alfyn were busy in their travel planning and Primrose in glaring angrily at the statues, before he leaned over, right palm spread wide. "What does it look like to you?"

"Uh… it looks like a hand. Thought you went to college.”

Cyrus traced a finger over the veins in his wrist, where they were the darkest and easiest to see. "Black on white," he murmured.

Therion frowned. His veins did look dark, especially when he held his own wrist up next to Cyrus'. "Maybe that's just because your skin is so pale, it just looks like that in contrast." His own skin was a few shades darker, the veins distinctly blue.

"You'd think that would be the sort of thing I'd notice before," Cyrus muttered.

Before any more could be said about it, light footsteps approached the doorway that led further into the cathedral. Ophilia passed through the threshold, and her face lit up when she saw Alfyn. As he laughed and moved to embrace her, she stopped, noticing the group gathered behind him. Alfyn glanced back over his shoulder at them.

“Oh, you know these folks,” he said, grinning as he introduced each of the other travelers. “We met them before in Wellspring. Well, all but Miss H’aanit, here.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Ophilia beamed at Cyrus and Primrose. “Welcome! Nice to see you all again. Please, by all means, make yourselves at home.”

Primrose laughed a bit, but tried to stifle it. Therion shot her a sideways glance. Ophilia just looked confused.

“How’s your pa?” Alfyn interjected.

“He…” Ophilia’s smile dimmed. “He comes and goes. There were a few days in there where he was looking like he was going to pull through the worst of it, but he’s relapsed a bit, I’m afraid.” She looked down and shook her head. “All we can do is pray.”

“Oh!” Alfyn smacked his forehead. “Or I can give him this!” He reached for his satchel, and pulled out a vial of a mustard yellow liquid. “Miss Susanna mixed this up for me after I got to talkin’ to her about his symptoms. She taught me how to make it, too… from the ingredients, seems like it might help.”

Ophilia smiled wide. “Yes! Yes, of course! Oh, Alfyn, you’re amazing!”

Alfyn scratched the back of his head awkwardly as he reddened. “I’ll go on in and see him, then. But in the meanwhile, I was wonderin’ if you wouldn’t mind helpin’ out my new buddy here.” Alfyn motioned to the thief seated on the bench.

"Therion got himself into a patch of trouble again," Alfyn explained. Therion stood up at the mention of his name. "Fixed him up as best I could, but thought you might want to give him some of that healin' help."

"It would be my pleasure," Ophilia said. “Go on in with that. Lianna’s with him now. I’ll see to our guests.”

Alfyn flashed her a goofy grin, then set off with the medicine. Ophilia turned her bright smile on the rest of the travelers. Primrose shifted uncomfortably under the cleric’s gaze.

"No offense, you seem very nice and all... but I think I might go wander around the marketplace, if it’s all the same to you." Occasionally, clerics and other religious zealots got it into their head that they needed to protest and rid the world of the scandalous plague that was dancing. Primrose had been shoved over and spit on by well-meaning holy folk many times before Helganish's bouncers had intervened. She had been cursed and screamed at, told that she was worthless and damned to hell, that the Gods hated her and would condemn her to an eternity of suffering. Somehow, these insults always cut deeper than any Helganish or the other loathsome pigs hurled at her, because they came from people who thought themselves moral paragons of virtue, their words motivated not by cruelty, but by pure hatred at what she was. "Just not quite ready to be…” she glanced at the statues with their ominous gaze. “Not really my thing.”

"I shalle comen with thee," H'aanit offered.

"Well, you both have a place to stay here, tonight," Ophilia said without a hint of disappointment. "Don't even think about an inn."

Primrose didn't return the smile. The two women whisked out the door.

"Do I... uh..." Therion looked around, tugging his scarf off.

"No, no, no need for that." Ophilia flushed. "Just have a seat."

She motioned back to the bench, where Cyrus had shifted to make more room. Therion caught his eye.

“You’re staying, right?”

“I’m always interested in the arcane arts,” Cyrus said. “Especially those elements that elude me.”

“Light and healing magic are not that difficult to master with persistence.” Ophilia’s hands poised about six inches from Therion’s skin. “Just relax,” she said softly, then over her shoulder to Cyrus. “It just takes a little faith and prayer.” 

Cyrus adopted a sardonic grin. “Is that all?”

“By the sacred light, let your wounds be healed,” Ophilia declared, and a warmth emanated from her fingertips, overtaking Therion’s nerves. It was instantly relaxing, like a heavy weight pulled off his shoulders, a cramped muscle finally stretching, an itch scratched at long last. The pain had lingered for so long now, he had forgotten what it was like not to physically hurt. He sank back into the bench, letting his eyes close as the pulse of healing energy spread across his body.

“I gather that you’re not quite the religious type, Professor.” Ophilia’s hands hovered over Therion, moving down his limbs. “Few academics are.”

“I’m afraid I have trouble subscribing to theories which lack empirical evidence,” Cyrus said. “Though I do not intend any offense.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ophilia said. “You don’t need to believe in the Gods. They believe in you.”

Cyrus smirked, but was silent. 

“Okay, all done.” 

Therion jolted awake. He hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep until the warmth suddenly vanished.

“How are you feeling?” Ophilia smiled at him.

“A lot better, actually…” Therion stared at her. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to this unselfish kindness. There had to be a catch, somewhere. He’d just have to keep his eyes open for it.

“Wonderful!” Ophilia clapped her hands together. “Please just let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, okay?”

A new figure emerged from the doorway Ophilia had come through. Another young, female cleric, and although she didn't look much like Ophilia physically, her warm smile and mannerisms made her seem very similar. 

"Phili!" the girl exclaimed. "Father's awake! Come quickly!"

"Alfyn's medicine worked?" Ophilia sprang to her feet. "Praise be!" She took a few steps forward, then remembered her two guests. "I'm so sorry, I--"

"Go to your father," Cyrus said. "We'll be fine."

Ophilia nodded, then rushed off with her sister. Therion stood, stretching his arms, feeling remarkably light. 

"She's good," Therion said, prodding at the bandages on his broken finger. The joint seemed completely healed, and he unwrapped it to check. "Definitely couldn't hurt to bring her and that apothecary along, especially if we're gonna fight some ancient evil... thing."

Cyrus was quiet, staring into the middle distance.

"What's wrong?" Therion sank down next to him on the bench.

"I have been doing some thinking," he began slowly. 

"You? Really?" Therion teased.

Cyrus smirked. "Hard to believe, I know. No, this whole... curse nonsense, and the blood magic in _From the Far Reaches of Hell._ You see, every element of magic has a particular arcane resonance, and--"

"I can tell by your tone there that you're about to spend at least a half hour on a lecture before you get to the point. Just skip to the end."

Cyrus smirked. "They're the same. The feeling of the supposed curse is practically identical to the feeling I got when I utilized the blood magic. And it seems as though I'm in a very unique position, having experienced both, to even be able to make that deduction. Most who have been rumored to have been afflicted with this asinine curse have been hunters or warriors or the like, according to Susanna's folk knowledge. Not the magically inclined sort, and not the sort who would record their experiences for posterity in that we might make our own deductions."

"Glad you're feeling so special. How does that help get you uncursed?"

"Magic is all about opposites. Fire and ice, wind and lightning, light and dark. Blood magic is darker than dark."

"You need lighter than light." He looked around the room. "You think the clerics know something?"

"All arcane disciplines hold their own forbidden knowledge." Cyrus gave a sly grin. "And if Ophilia's father is an Archbishop...?"

"You think he'd just going to hand it over to you?"

"Of course not. I'm a stranger and an atheist. That's why I'm telling you."

"What do you want me to--" Therion stopped, realizing. "Ah, I get it." He looked around the room again, this time with his thief's eyes. "Betcha these door locks are old as hell. They'll go in a second." 

Cyrus flashed him a conspiratorial smile, then motioned to the doorway the clerics had disappeared down. "If that's the way to his private chambers, then he's bound to have a study down that way, as well."

Therion dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning in close to Cyrus. "Better to wait until night. Who knows who's poking around these hallways right now."

Cyrus leaned in as well. "Ophilia did say we could stay here tonight. That should be helpful."

"I'll turn you into a thief yet." Therion laughed. "Not weirded out stealing from a church, though? I usually try not to unless the resident clerics have proven themselves to be a bunch of uptight assholes. It's bad luck."

"I don't want to take anything, I just want to look at his library." Cyrus shrugged. "Anything I steal will be in here." He tapped the fading dark spot on the side of his forehead.

Therion grinned. He was about to say something else, but the door to the main part of the church began to open. Therion shifted away from Cyrus, and the middle-aged cleric from before entered with another man neither one of them recognized. He was smartly dressed in a fur-trimmed blue coat, with long, loose brown hair. Cyrus stood, manners ingrained in him from an early age, but Therion remained on the bench with his arms crossed.

"Oh. Oh dear me, I'm so sorry," the cleric said, flustered. "I had forgotten that this room was not empty. And now I must find Sister Ophilia again..."

"She's currently tending to the Archbishop," Cyrus said. "It seems he's reacted well to a new medicine."

"Has he, now?" the man in the blue coat said, before he remembered to crack a benign smile. "How wonderful."

"It truly is!" the cleric gushed. "Oh, praise be, a miracle is upon us!" He glanced anxiously between the men and the door to the Archbishop's room. "Oh, but I couldn't..."

"Go on in," Cyrus waved dismissively. "It's not every day one gets to witness a miracle."

"A miracle indeed," the man in the blue coat nodded, teeth gritted.

"Thank you, please excuse me," the cleric said, rushing off. The man in the blue coat watched him go, before turning back to Cyrus and extending his hand.

“Call me Mattias," he said, affecting a smile. "I'm a trader with the Leoniel Consortium."

"Professor Cyrus Albright, of the Royal Academy." Cyrus shook his hand. "This is Therion."

Therion hadn't moved from the bench, arms still crossed.

Mattias appraised each of them in turn. "Here to work on your religious edification, Professor?"

"Not quite." Cyrus returned the fake smile. "We're here with an apothecary companion who evidently was able to cure that which others could not."

"Yes," Mattias hissed. "I had heard the honorable Archbishop was recovering from his mysterious affliction, and hoped to pay him a visit. Never had I imagined he would make a complete recovery. What timing." The trader considered for a moment. "Your apothecary friend... might he be that tall, stocky boy with the blond ponytail?"

Cyrus nodded. "You've met him."

"Briefly," Mattias nodded. "I ran into he and Sister Ophilia in Goldshore, when they received the news from the Knights Ardant messenger that Archbishop Josef had been doing better." The apothecary's presence, as well as the unexpected news of the recovery, had kept Mattias from enacting his plan to confiscate the Lanthorn in the Coastlands. He had come to see what his options would be here, but so far was immensely disappointed. He clasped his hands together in a calculated gesture of humility. "Will the wonders never cease? You say he was able to mix a potion to cure the illness?"

"With help from an old fortune teller up in Stillsnow." Cyrus nodded. "You would have to ask him more about it. Do you trade in medicines, sir?"

"Occasionally," Mattias said, trying hard to subdue his irritation. 

The middle-aged cleric returned again. “Pardon me, Master Mattias, but His Excellency has requested your presence. He wishes to thank you for your aid in assisting Sister Ophilia with completing her pilgrimage, and the kindness you have shown his daughters in this trying time.”

“Of course,” Mattias said. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Mattias bowed his head in Cyrus' direction, and followed the cleric down the hallway.

"I don't trust that guy," Therion muttered, as soon as the sound of footsteps had vanished.

"No." Cyrus shook his head. "The more I travel, the more I can discern the undeniably false. It's unfortunate." He glanced back at Therion with a smile. "It makes me further appreciate people without such pretense."

\--- --- ---

Primrose and H'aanit returned for dinner that night, where the food was as humble and wholesome as the Clement family themselves. Archbishop Josef, leaning heavily on his daughter Lianna, even made his way to the head of the table, though he wasn't able to stay for the entire evening. Lianna sat at his right, and he offered that Ophilia take the seat opposite him at the other end of the table, granting her the honor for completing her pilgrimage. He insisted the flustered Alfyn take the seat at her right. Ophilia played the hostess with grace, though she seemed to assume the couples incorrectly, offering Cyrus and Primrose seats together on one side of the table, Therion and H'aanit together on the other. No one seemed very inclined to correct her. Josef had invited Mattias to eat with them, as well, and he sat perfectly content to engage in smalltalk between a doting Lianna and an uncomfortable H'aanit.

Everyone seemed to have their own motives. Cyrus, with a carefully crafted set of questions peppered between innocuous ones, was attempting to figure out the extent of the Archbishop's knowledge in his discipline's arcane arts, and soon the two men were engaged in a heated discussion anchored in polysyllabic words no one else at the table had much familiarity with. The sneaking into the study plan was looking all the more promising. Mattias used the distraction to charm Lianna, who was responding worryingly well to the vague flirtations happening right under her father's nose. Mattias was going to get that Sacred Light somehow. 

Ophilia was bent on trying to get Primrose to smile, as she had been glowering since she entered the city. Primrose had made up her mind long ago that she was going to detest the cleric, and find her judgemental, naïve, and critical. She was finding it harder and harder to maintain that idea in the face of Ophilia's soft spoken kindness and warm smiles. 

H'aanit was trying her best not to make a mess of herself. She had always felt stifled in these trappings of formality-- she'd knocked over her water glass and spilt all over herself, dropped her fork on the floor twice, and still had no idea what she was expected to do with her elbows. She longed for a simple campfire and the visceral comfort of being able to eat with her hands, and she was keenly aware that she was the tallest one at the table, something that was always masked when everyone sat on different rocks or fallen logs. 

Alfyn was thrilled to be sitting next to Ophilia, but had hoped to be nearer to the Archbishop. He had been banging an idea around in his head for a while, and if he was to go forward with it, well, he'd need Josef's blessing. 

Therion was simply trying to shovel as much food into his belly as he could, wondering how many times he could ask for more before everyone else got annoyed and stopped passing the serving dishes. 

After the Archbishop's fatigue grew too great, Mattias graciously offered to help him down to his chambers, but Josef declined, relying on Lianna instead. Masking his disappointment at this denied opportunity, Mattias excused himself, which set Ophilia into a tizzy trying to convince him to stay in one of the cathedral's dormitories, intent on playing the good hostess. 

The dormitories, which offered beds for visiting pilgrims and worshippers, were segregated by sex but otherwise offered little in the way of privacy. Primrose longed to curl herself up with H'aanit, but was dissuaded by the prying eyes of the other women and female clerics making use of the beds in the long, narrow room. On the opposite side of the hallway, Cyrus lent a patient ear to Alfyn's folksy stories, while Therion appreciated the feeling of a full belly, waiting for the cathedral to fall asleep.

Finally, it was just the three of them awake, speaking in low tones before the fireplace. Therion had been wondering about the nighttime activities of the cathedral-- he highly doubted there would be any guards, but you never know. He stood, rubbing his legs.

"Think I might go for a little walk around before heading to bed," he said, for Alfyn's benefit. "Maybe go see if I can find a kitchen and get something to drink."

"Stay out of the sacramental wine," Cyrus teased.

"Alright, then I _won't_ bring any back for you." 

"Sometimes they got milk down in the cold cellar," Alfyn said. "It's fresh, and it's good."

Therion gave him a nod, and set off to survey the corridors silently, snatching up a candle to light his way.

When he had gone, Alfyn turned to Cyrus. "He seems to be doin' a lot better."

Cyrus chose not to inform Alfyn of the nights during their travel from Stillsnow that Therion had woken up in a cold sweat, struggling against himself and gasping for breath, the tense fear in his body only leaving after Cyrus had spend minutes reassuring him with kisses and caresses that he was safe. Therion always gave a shaky sigh when he finally realized where he was, always sank himself into Cyrus' arms, and eventually fell back into the nightmares all over again.

Cyrus drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "Yes. I suppose he is." 

"How 'bout you, man?"

"Me? I'm fine. I wasn't even injured. One of the benefits of magic is that it allows one to fight at a distance."

"That's not what I'm talkin' about." Alfyn leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Phili and I... we can only heal the outside of a person, right? Takes a lot more to heal the inside, in their head. Takes people to care about ya. He needs you right now, ya know, but you gotta be in the right place to be able to help in. And that takes some work on your part. Takes some lookin' inside and dealin' with the stuff that's botherin' ya."

Cyrus stared at him for a long time. "With all the respect due to the help you have given us, for which you have my immense gratitude, I believe you may be overstepping the bounds of familiarity. "

"I'm not tryin’ to get all up in your business." Alfyn shook his head. "Just goin' off what I can see. He's my patient, so I'm lookin' after him. And I know he means a lot more than just that to you. You don't have to put labels on it or explain it or nothin'. But if you want to help him heal, you gotta help out yourself. Look, can I ask you somethin'?"

Cyrus crossed his arms and exhaled his annoyance. "I somehow have the sense that you're going to, regardless of my response."

"When's the last time you had a good cry?"

Cyrus laughed.

"I'm serious, man," Alfyn said. "Sometimes you just gotta let it all out."

"You truly want to know?" Cyrus leaned forward.

"Yeah, man."

Cyrus flashed a patronizing smile. "There was an important social event that I was very excited to attend. Unfortunately, other circumstances kept me from it, and the disappointment was immeasurable, and I could barely stomach it." His voice took on a vicious edge. "Because as a five year old boy, being unable to attend a friend's birthday party-- where there were performing monkeys in little costumes-- because you haven't perfected the piano scales your mother has assigned to you is particularly devastating. But don't worry yourself. I was shortly thereafter informed that crying was unseemly, and that I should cease immediately." He narrowed his eyes at Alfyn. "I'm no longer a child."

Alfyn stood, shaking his head. "You don't deal with it, it's gonna deal with you. Just tryin' to look out for ya. But, to each his own, I guess." He shrugged, heading off to the bed he had claimed. "Goodnight."

Cyrus didn't respond. He stared into the fire, the bandaged scar on his wrist throbbing.

Therion returned, so silent as he opened the door and slid across the room that Cyrus didn't notice until he was standing right next to him. The scholar jolted forward in surprise. Therion hid his smirk.

"I think we're good to go," he whispered. "Whole place is asleep, hallways are straightforward enough. I was able to get right into the Archbishop's room. He's in there snoring with the door unlocked. Room beyond it is full of bookshelves. I can get you in there just fine, but it's dark, so bring this candle and light it only once we're in there with the door closed." Therion shook his head. "If only all places were as easy at this."

Cyrus smiled at him. "You are truly a master of your craft."

"Yeah, I know. Let's go."

With Therion's coaching, Cyrus was able to follow as they moved like silent shadows through the hallways. Therion opened the door to the Archbishop's chamber slowly, lifting up on the door handle to keep the hinges from squeaking. The embers in his fireplace lit the room enough for them to navigate around the bed where Josef lay snoring. They snuck into the study on the other end of the room, and Therion made sure the door was shut tightly, leaving the two of them alone in the darkness. 

"Okay," he whispered.

Cyrus muttered a spell, a tiny flame igniting at the top of his candlestick. He held the light to the nearest bookshelf, eyes widening as he traced his fingers reverently over the lettering on the spines.

"Anything interesting?" Therion smirked.

"Undoubtedly," Cyrus whispered. He tugged a volume from the shelf and handed it back to the thief. "Hang on to that one."

Therion squinted at the title while Cyrus continued to peruse the shelves. The letters didn't seem to be any he could recognize. "Is this written in that one language?"

"Hornburgian. I have a hunch."

Cyrus quickly went through the rest of the shelves, pulling out a few tomes to quickly flip through, but only handing two more to Therion. With one last look over the shelves, he nodded.

"Those three," he whispered. "I'll look them over tonight, back where there's adequate lighting. We'll put them back in the morning, at breakfast or some such."

"Okay. Let's go then, before one of the cleric girls decides to come check on him." Therion breathed on the candle to extinguish it. Cyrus grabbed his shoulder, and Therion squeezed it as they crept out through the bedchamber again. Before they could round the bed, however, the far door to the hallway began to creak open loudly.

Cyrus froze, the shock of being caught paralyzing him. Therion, thinking quickly, dove back into the study, pulling Cyrus with him. They pressed their backs to the other side of the doorframe, but the hallway door opened, lantern light spilling into the bedchamber before they could shut the study door. Therion hugged the books to his chest, shooting Cyrus a silent, shadowy warning not to make a sound. 

There came the sound of untrained footsteps, far too heavy to belong to either of the cleric girls. Therion's curiosity ached. The footsteps stopped, as well as the flickering of the lantern light-- the intruder was still. Therion passed the stack of books silently over to Cyrus, and ventured to peek around the corner.

He didn't see much. There was a figure in a dark cloak holding the lantern, peering down at the sleeping Archbishop. Josef hadn't stirred. He was still snoring soundly, and Therion wondered why he had bothered being so careful if the man was going to sleep like a log. The cloaked figure hung the lantern on the headboard, and was muttering something. There was too much shadow for Therion to make out much more than the broad shoulders that suggested it to be male.

The cloaked figure stretched his hands over the Archbishop's sleeping form, and his muttering grew louder. Therion couldn't understand the words, but he couldn't help but feel like the general sounds and cadence of them seemed familiar. As if they had been something he had heard before in a dream.

The recollection hit him. The cloaked necromancer in the sewers in Quarrycrest, chanting spells to control the minds of that merchant boy and Cyrus. And then Cyrus himself, standing over him, blood dripping from his wrist, speaking with two voices at once, right before he disappeared in Northreach.

Therion reached for him, suddenly panicked, but when he grabbed the scholar's arm there was no reaction. Therion looked back at him in the shadows, and his heart caught in his throat when the dim lights glinted red off Cyrus' eyes, the same way an animal's might flash in a fire in the dead of night. The books slid out of his grasp, and Therion was just as terrified of the noise they made as the fact that he knew, somehow intuitively, that Cyrus was no longer there with him.

There had been no warning. When the signature aura of that infernal presence had actualized, it had been like a switch in the scholar's mind. Redeye had worked tirelessly at the walls and defenses, burrowing a passageway through. When it came, it came all at once, a flood burying any possible sense of self. It was just the rush of power, the attachment to the dark and foreboding other, bringing with it the lost memories of life ending at his fingertips, one after another. Cyrus had tracked them tirelessly in the snow and the dark, the red moon glaring overhead serving as the sole witness. He had drained the vitality of each offender, severed the essence of their wretched souls angrily from their mortal forms, and each time felt the overwhelming invincibility, the hunger for more. So he didn't stop. Each time he had fed the beast within, it had gained more boldness, more strength. As he had busied himself with petty vengeance, it had seeped its corruption throughout its new vessel, laying the pathways to where it could return the moment it sensed the call of its creator. And when he had finished, when he had sucked the life force from each and every one of those miserable wretches, left them lumped in the snow-covered streets with black wings outspread, the dark presence had slept, calmly content in its new home which no longer offered the least bit of resistance. 

Cyrus' body moved towards the sound of the spell coming from the bedchamber, crawling over Therion. He tried to stop him, latching on to his shoulders. Cyrus dragged them both in front of the doorway, and Therion glanced up to see a swirl of blood-red magical energy weaving from the black hood's fingertips to be inhaled by the sleeping form of the Archbishop. The fire in the room glowed menacingly, seeming to suck all the warmth out of the room to concentrate it in angry red embers, but share none of it. The black cloak was speaking with two voices, ignoring the struggle in the other doorway.

"Cyrus..." Therion whispered as loud as he dared and clung to him, trying to hold him back. 

"LeT gO, tHeRiOn." Cyrus shrugged him off with surprising force. The chanting from the bedchamber did not stop. Cyrus rose to his feet, his mouth moving in the same words as the spell. The sense of ominous malice grew, Cyrus serving now as a coincidental conduit for whatever the black cloaked figure had summoned. Cyrus began to move into the room, movements jerky and unnatural.

Therion clambered up, and dashed in front of Cyrus, wrapping his arms around his middle, pushing back against him with all his strength. All his gut told him was that he couldn't let Cyrus join that swirl of red and black hovering over the Archbishop, that if he reached that blood and darkness that there would be no getting him back.

"Cyrus, stop," Therion said, not bothering to mask the emotion in his voice. "This isn't you."

"iT cALLs." Cyrus spoke with a voice that was not his own. "StAnD aSiDe."

Therion squeezed his arms around Cyrus' stomach, desperate to stop him. He kissed him, hoping to some fairy tale magic that it would somehow bring him to his senses again. Cyrus' lips didn't react. The chanting did not stop. The only movement he felt was when Cyrus' hands moved to his waist.

He felt Cyrus slide the dagger out from his belt.

Therion held him tighter, his heart pounding.

The only thing he felt was the rush of warm blood spilling over his skin.

_No..._

There was a scream. It seemed to come from behind them, but Therion couldn't be sure if it was from the Archbishop, the black cloak, or something else. He turned to see the black cloak pull back, clutching at his left arm, then take off running down the dark hallway. Josef was shaking in the bed, black spots erupting across his unconscious face. And Cyrus crumpled forward against Therion's body.

They fell to the floor together, a black liquid something coating Therion's right arm, and Cyrus' left. It was on the blade of Therion's dagger, too, which had fallen from Cyrus' hand. The dark liquid was soaking through the torn sleeve of Cyrus' shirt, through the ripped-open bandage that had been on his wrist, and it seemed to be spreading rapidly. It was only then that Therion could figure out what it was-- he hadn't recognized it at first, because it was dark as ink even in the bright light of the lantern.

It was blood. It was Cyrus' blood, and it was black.

The scholar was shuddering with every breath, fading quickly. The cut was deep, running the length of Cyrus' forearm. Cursing, Therion yanked his scarf off, wrapping it tightly around the darkly bleeding wound.

"Therion...?" Cyrus said weakly.

"I got you," Therion said. "That guy ran off."

"Did I... did I hurt you?"

"No, idiot, you stabbed yourself. The hell were you thinking?"

"That I couldn't let it kill you,” Cyrus breathed. “That's what it wanted."

Therion stopped, watching Cyrus struggle to keep his eyelids open. 

"I would rather destroy myself than ever hurt you again."

Sounds came crashing in from the hallway, and there were the cries of the cleric girls rushing to their father's bedside, and Alfyn shaking his shoulder, asking him what happened, and Therion couldn't look away from the pool of black blood seeping into the rug. He pulled himself close to Cyrus, afraid that if he let go, he would lose him forever.


	31. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter twice and I'm still not sure about it... oh well. 
> 
> Some trippy light magic vision quest incoming. Alternate title: In which Cyrus learns to take a hint.

“Father, no!”

“Your Excellency!”

“Is he…?”

“He’s breathing. Thank the Flame, his breathing is steady.”

“What in the heck happened here?!” Alfyn was shaking Therion’s shoulder. He was jarred from the black liquid oozing out of Cyrus’ open vein to look up at the apothecary.

“A man in a black hood,” Therion managed. “Some kind of evil magic. He ran off.” He pointed a shaky finger. 

Alfyn looked back at the corridor, then back at Cyrus.

“Chase him down!” Lianna screamed, and Alfyn was off and running. 

Ophilia noticed Cyrus now, and hurried around the bed, only to pause at the sight of the black blood. That hesitation was enough for her to begin questioning.

Therion knew exactly what this looked like. Every survival instinct in his brain was telling him to run. Drop everything, push past people if need be, but run, and add Flamesgrace to the ever-growing list of places he would never return to. But he couldn't. Cyrus had slipped into unconsciousness, black blood rapidly darkening his scarf tied around the upper part of the wound.

Ophilia met his eyes, gravely serious. "We welcomed you into our home. I healed you. We fed you. We gave you a place to sleep. And this is what you do to thank us."

Therion shook his head desperately at her, chest heaving with heavy breath. 

"Please..." he managed. "He's bleeding... he's dying."

She looked down at the unholy mess. “What… what _is_ he?”

“Please…”

With a heavy intake of breath, Ophilia stepped lightly towards them, lifting her skirts to kneel on the other side of Cyrus’ body, her hands hovering over the wound. She murmured her prayer, and the blood flow began to lessen.

“Why are you healing him?!” Lianna screamed. “That demon tried to kill our father!”

“It was some guy in a black hood!” Therion yelled at her. “I tried to tell you--”

“Lies!” Lianna cried, and was rushing around the bed, lunging at Therion. He fell backwards with the cleric on top of him, clawing at him in rage. He threw his arms up to try to block her, not wanting to hit her back. Suddenly she was pulled off of him, and Primrose was there, wrestling a crying Lianna to the ground, pinning her down.

“We just got him back!” Lianna sobbed, then growling at Primrose: “Get off of me, you harlot!”

Primrose slapped her.

Ophilia was there now, dropping Cyrus’ arm, trying to pull Primrose back and keep her sister at arm’s length. 

“Enough!” Ophilia yelled. “We have two gravely injured people! Fight later!”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Lianna flew back to her father, clutching his blankets and sobbing, her head on his chest.

Primrose steadied herself, eyes widening when she saw the state Cyrus was in. Black blood was smeared across the floor and Therion’s hands. She drew her fingers up over her mouth.

“All we heard was the scream,” Primrose said, unable to take her eyes from the sight. “What happened to him?”

Therion could only shake his head and stare with her.

“I think I’ve stopped the blood flow,” Ophilia said, between murmured prayers, with Lianna’s sobs in the background. She glared up at Therion, jaw set. “I hope that you can grant me an explanation for all this.”

Primrose looked at him with worried questions in her expression as well.

“There was this guy.” Therion floundered for words. “He had a black hood, and he did some kind of evil magic, and then Cyrus...”

"A guy in a black hood. Right." Lianna scoffed. “Phili, we need to call the Knights Ardente! These two need to be in prison for attempted murder!”

Ophilia shushed her sister. "Why is the Professor bleeding, then?" She frowned. "And why is his blood black?"

"I... I don't know. I don't know.” Therion could hear the desperation in his voice. “He could tell you. Maybe. Is he…?" He tried to reach forward, trying to touch him just to verify that there was still life within his form. Ophilia’s eyes, bright with indignation, stopped him. He couldn’t even think of a decent lie, not with Cyrus lying there, looking like a corpse.

"Did your man in a black hood stab him? Curse him?" Ophilia focused an immense amount of energy into her patience.

"No. He... he stabbed himself." Therion was fully aware of how all of this sounded. “He wasn’t himself. There was something in the magic--”

"Isn't that your dagger?" Primrose asked, eyeing the blade coated in inky blackness.

“And why were you two down here in the first place, at this time of night?” Lianna interjected angrilly.

"It’s mine, but I--" Therion gave up. He knew none of his explanation made sense, and that even if it did, these angy cleric girls wouldn't be buying it. Primrose didn’t even believe him. 

"It was all me," he said, without thinking. If someone had to be blamed, it shouldn’t be Cyrus. They might not help him, then. "I... I thought there would be some good stuff in here. Cyrus saw me and he was trying to keep me from taking anything. Then the guy in the black hood showed up, and we hid, and he's the one who was trying to kill the Archbishop, but he ran off, but not before something in the magic..." he waved his hands uselessly at Cyrus, he head lying at Ophilia’s knees. “Did that.”

Three more figures appeared at the door to the Archbishop’s room-- the middle-aged cleric that had greeted them before, followed by two armored members of the Knights Ardente, who served as security for the Cathedral and Flamesgrace as a whole. The cleric began whispering prayers to himself, while Lianna screamed at the Knights to arrest Therion. When they moved towards him, Primrose tried to intercede, but backed off as they drew their swords. 

“He said he didn’t do it!” she told Ophilia.

Therion eyed the blade angled towards him. The Knights were trained soldiers, these were cramped quarters, and they had Cyrus. He said nothing as the second Knight bound his hands behind his back. 

“Perhaps he didn’t,” Ophilia said. “But he has admitted to breaking in. Maybe it’s best to just keep him somewhere safe until we figure this out.”

“That one, too!” Lianna shouted, pointing at Cyrus. “Look at him, he’s not even human!”

“This man is clearly unwell.” Ophilia was holding on to Cyrus’ injured arm, now, working her healing magic over it again. “Let me tend to him.”

Therion wanted to scream, and struggle, and fight back to keep them from taking him away from Cyrus, from locking him up. But if he did, they might not help him. They might just let him die. So he let the Knight shuffle him forward, taking one last look.

“Please help him,” Therion said quietly.

Ophilia looked up at him, sternness in her face, but she nodded. Therion let himself be hauled away down the corridor. They stopped in the outer room, as Alfyn and two other Knights were headed in. Alfyn looked Therion up and down, noticing the troubled look on his face and that his hands were bound. The apothecary’s expression said it all: _Shouldn’ta trusted a thief._

Leaving Therion in the hands of the Knights, Alfyn hustled back in, ready to lend what help he could. Ophilia instructed the two new Knights to carry Cyrus to a bed and keep watch. She peeled her gloves off, careful not to touch any of the black blood. 

“Did you see a guy in a black cloak?” Primrose asked Alfyn, desperate for something hopeful.

“H’aanit thought she did.” Alfyn nodded to her, looking over the Archbishop. “My eyes are near useless at night, but she came out runnin’ with me, and she thinks she can track ‘im. Got the Knights all lookin’ for this guy, too. He ain’t leavin’ the city, that’s fer sure.”

“So Therion’s telling the truth,” Primrose said, crossing her arms and staring down the two cleric girls.

“Or you’re all in on him with it,” Lianna spat. 

Primrose was about to voice an angry comeback, but Ophilia touched her shoulder to calm her. 

“Why don’t you go see to the Professor?” she suggested. “He should be stable enough, but watch him and send someone to fetch me if something changes, okay? That will be a big help.”

Primrose frowned, but did as Ophilia suggested. 

Alfyn was feeling the Archbishop’s pulse and temperature, standing next to Lianna. Her face was still wet with tears.

“He’s back how he was…” she said. Suddenly, she whirled at him. “That medicine! That miracle medicine! Do you have more?”

Alfyn bit his lip and shook his head. “‘Fraid not.”

“But you can make more, right?” Ophilia asked, coming over to them, touching her bare hand lightly on Alfyn’s forearm. He turned to her, the thought of disappointing her paining him.

“It… it won’t be easy as all that,” he admitted. “Susanna used up some rare ingredients to make it. The last of her stock. I’d have to go round up the things to make it.”

“Then that’s what you’ll do!” Lianna said. “Go! Right this instant! Please!”

“Lianna,” Ophilia said, pulling her sister into a hug. She started crying again.

“We just got him back, Phili.” Lianna’s voice was muffled by Ophilia’s shoulder. “Everything was going to be okay again.”

“I know, I know.” 

They tried to convince Lianna to return to bed, but she insisted on staying at her father’s side. Ophilia made sure a member of the Knights Ardente was to be with her at all times, before she and Alfyn went to check on their other patient. Alfyn leaned in to whisper when they were far enough down the corridor.

“She’s takin’ it pretty hard,” he said. 

“She’s been at his side since the illness first struck,” Ophilia said. “She’s grown hopeful at every optimistic sign, felt the tragedy of every turn for the worse. It’s hard. But she’s tough.”

Alfyn nodded. “You sure _you’re_ okay?”

“I’ve already lost a father, once,” Ophilia said quietly. “She was there for me then. I need to be strong for her now.”

When they entered the room the Knights had taken Cyrus to, they found Primrose already there, wringing out a stained black cloth into a basin of water. She had been using it to clean Cyrus’ wounded arm. Though Ophilia’s spell had stopped the bleeding, he was still a mess, and an ugly dark line of crusted blood ran along the underside of his forearm. The rest of him was ghastly pale. 

Primrose looked up at the two healers. They both knew that face-- looking to them for answers, for knowledge, for miracles. It was always easier when they had some of that to offer back. Alfyn approached, reaching out a hand to check the vital signs, when Primrose stopped him.

“Don’t touch him with your bare hands,” she said. “That’s how H’aanit and he got cursed. He might be… he might be at that stage, now. I don’t know. I don’t know how it works.”

Alfyn frowned, noticing Primrose was wearing the leather winter gloves she had used while venturing out through the Frostlands. Ophilia stepped forward, dipping the fingers of her own gloves in the basin, adding a black swirl to the already darkened water. Then she pulled them on, carefully.

“Tell me about this curse,” she said.

Primrose shook her head. “H’aanit can tell you more. It’s this beast that cursed her Master, and she’s trying to kill it. Along the way, it got in her and Cyrus’ heads. But H’annit isn’t like… this…” She looked back mournfully at Cyrus’ senseless form. 

“D’ya think he could have passed it on to your Pa?” Alfyn asked. When he saw Primrose’s offended glare, he added, “Accidently, of course.”

“I take it his blood hasn’t always been black. That’s this curse?” Ophilia, gloves on, pulled at the torn fabric of Cyrus’ sleeve, exposing more of the wound.

“Of course not,” Primrose said. “It… it’s some part of it. He was talking to H’aanit about it one night, but I didn’t listen. We should ask her. Where is she?”

“She wanted to go chasin’ after that man in the black,” Alfyn said. “But I don’t think she’s gonna have much luck. Whatever hole he scurried into, it’s not one the Knights know about.” He shrugged. “I can go see if I can fetch her.”

“That may be helpful, Alfyn, thank you.” Ophilia smiled at him. Alfyn flushed, then ducked out the door. 

The silence lingered for a bit, Ophilia looking worriedly down at Cyrus. 

“They didn’t hurt your father,” Primrose said. “They’re not like that.”

Ophilia didn’t turn around. “Alfyn tells me Therion is a thief. They _were_ in His Excellency’s study.”

Primrose’s jaw dropped. She struggled to compose herself. “That doesn’t mean--”

“I never said it did. Some things are best left to the Gods to judge.” 

Primrose simmered, but decided to hold her tongue. She watched as Ophilia performed some more ministrations. The cleric herself was at a loss. The Professor’s symptoms were close, but not quite the same as those of the Archbishop. Yet she could sense the same darkness in both, as if they came from the same source. She didn’t want to entertain the possibility that this man would have willingly attacked His Excellency, but…

Alfyn returned, this time with H’aanit. She looked flushed, and out of breath. 

“Mine apologies, Sister,” H’aanit said, shaking her head. “I coulde not catcheth him.”

“But you’re positive you saw him?”

“Aye.” H’aanit’s tone and expression were not the kind to be questioned.

“Some of the Knights on watch said they saw him, too,” Alfyn offered. “But nobody’s sure where he mighta gone.”

Ophilia nodded. “H’aanit, Primrose said that you might know some more about this curse. I’m wondering if it’s connected at all with what happened to His Excellency… it seems to have the same energy about it.”

“Thou art a mage,” H’aanit said. “As is he. He hath his theories, that the curse afflicteth mages differently.” She sighed, trying to frame her explanation. “The beast speaketh to one who hath been afflicted. It testeth to see thy strengths and weaknesses. When it findeth a weakness, it attacketh there.” She hesitated. “It hath made me slow, mine joints stiff, mine senses dulled.” She dropped her eyes, clearly ashamed to admit this. Primrose stood next to her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Cyrus woulde not be hindered in the same way. The beast attacketh his mind. His strength.”

Ophilia nodded, looking down at her folded hands. “I’m very sorry you are struggling with that, H’aanit.”

Primrose burst. “It’s not just in his mind anymore! It’s in his blood!” She shook her head at Ophilia. “Can’t you do something? Like, dunk him in holy water, or do an exorcism or something?”

Ophilia’s brow furrowed.

“What about that thing you and Lianna tried with your Pa?” Alfyn interjected.

“The Celestial Intervention?” she asked.

“Yeah, it helped the Archbishop.” Alfyn shrugged. 

Ophilia shook her head. “That was Lianna’s idea. We don’t even know where that spell comes from. We shouldn’t have tried it. Something might have gone wrong.”

“But it helped him, didn’t it?” Alfyn asked. “He woke up for a little bit, at least.”

“If thou canst waketh Cyrus, mayhaps he can telleth thee more about what happened.” H’aanit nodded.

“Something that might help your father,” Primrose offered.

Ophilia looked at the hopeful faces gathered around her, then back at the unconscious scholar lying on the bed. “Okay. I guess it’s worth a try.”

“How can we helpen?”

\--- --- ---

The first thing he saw was a solitary bright light in the darkness. It slowly came into focus, as if hidden behind the haze of steam or heat on a summer day. A face, radiant but blurry, clearly female, long hair like the rays of the sun. Ophilia? No. Not quite.

“The sunlight can burn one clean,” she said, her voice ethereal. “And sometimes one’s own disillusions, to bestow inner visions of truth. But they don’t come easily to a nonbeliever.”

“This is a vision?” Cyrus heard his own voice, but wasn’t aware of speaking aloud.

The face changed, the soft edges hardening, the arched brows furrowing. Odette, but years ago, not as she was now.

“Cognitive bias is a tricky thing to overcome,” she said, voice harsh and brass. “Many subjective realities, but only one objective truth.”

“Reality is truth,” Cyrus assured.

Another change, swift and jarring. Therese, with that sinister lilt to her smile. “Truth is truth.”

The light shattered, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces. Cyrus found himself staring up at a broken sky, splinters of deep brown and gray and dusty tan. Lightning streaked across, white and hot, but it lingered. It took full minutes before fading from vision, changing the colors of each dingy pane of sky in its wake. The thunder rumbled slow, far-off, and muted, though the cracked, dull sky was cloudless.

Cyrus sat up, finding himself clothed in his usual attire, cloak rippling in the howling wind. He rolled back his left sleeve, to reveal an arm free of bandages or scars. Then he surveyed his surroundings, standing slowly.

It seemed like a library that stretched flat to the horizons, but hopelessly ravaged by war. No walls were left standing, just miles and miles of toppled bookshelves, strewn parchments, blackened tomes with torn pages ruffling in the wind. Many were smoldering, lazy black smoke billowing from fires in the distance. There were some portraits, statues, ornaments, and other trappings one might find in such a place before whatever ruination had befallen it. As far as he could tell, he was alone.

He stepped forward, gently lifting a soot-covered book from a toppled stack before him. He shook the ashes off, recognizing it: a theoretical mathematics textbook he had used during his time as a student. He opened to a page, finding everything as he remembered it, with some additions: his notes, written in his own hand, annotating the pages. It was what he had thought while reading it, but he had never written it down in the volume-- the text was too expensive to be thusly defaced. Not that it mattered, here in this expanse of desolation. He set the text down, choosing another.

He brushed off the cover of the second volume, recognizing a book of fairy tales his aunt had sent him when he was very young. Cyrus thumbed through the pages. The illustrations were there, hazy, and sometimes only charcoal outlines, but the text was gibberish. Recognizable letters arranged in nonsense words. His father had told him the book was rubbish and given him a collection of histories to read instead. Cyrus had never read this book, only flipped through the pictures on occasion. He sighed, and set it back where he had found it. The wind howled.

That’s when he noticed the black and red scar in the torn ground. It was a crack into the void beneath, about as wide as his hand, glowing ominous and angry. He traced it with his gaze, only seeing now how it connected to more, spreading out from thicker gashes like a network of infernal tree roots. He looked from one smoldering pile of books to another, and figured the only obvious thing was to follow the fissures to their source. Something at the end had to prompt rational explanation for all of this.

With little else to do, he followed them, step after step through the ruins, as they grew thicker and branched together. He climbed over toppled shelves, skirted around fires and deep wounds in the ground where the delicately patterned marble tiles had been dug up and torn apart, where the place showed the bruises from whatever battle had been fought here.

The sounds were horrendously loud. There was the occasional smack of lighting and roll of thunder re-shattering the sky above, and the haunting whistle of the wind as it rushed by his ears. There were the crackles of the fires, burning near and far, but other than that, the only noises came from the click of his own heels on the remaining tile, the sound of his own breathing and palpitating heart. Traversing the seemingly endless expanse, following the trail of the black fissures, he began to long for another human soul.

Lightning crackled above his head, sending a shooting pain through his temple. There was a screech above him, a flutter of wings, a stabbing beak, talons, piercing eyes. A massive creature, swooping down at him from above, clawing for his eyes. Cyrus threw his hands above his head, fighting back and ducking, lashing out at whatever part of the sometimes human, sometimes avian body he could hit. He ran for cover under the nearest toppled bookshelf. He could have sworn he heard someone calling his name, in a familiar voice.

He wriggled under the toppled shelf, and heard the creature’s talons clawing into the wood above him. 

“Professor…”

There was that voice. He looked around, unable to place it.

“I just wanted you to… pay more attention to me.”

The clawing stopped. The creature fluttered away, screaming out its frustrations. 

“Why can’t you love me?!”

Cyrus waited for his breathing to steady, wriggling out from beneath the bookshelf slowly. He glanced around at the shattered sky. Lightning cracked again, but the creature was gone. He collapsed against the side of the toppled bookshelf, hand on his heaving chest.

“Cy, the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He looked to the source of the voice. Tented beneath two old, torn portraits, there lay a toppled marble bust-- just like the kind in the Academy Founder’s Hall. Except this one looked strangely like Odette, with her nose cracked. And it was talking to him.

“Odette?” he asked, venturing towards it.

“Who else would it be?” she snapped. “What exactly do you think you're doing?”

“Attempting to not be devoured by a menacing bird creature. I thought that was obvious.” He went over to pick up the broken statue. The lips moved along cracks in the chin and cheeks as it-- she? spoke. 

“It's not going to work,” she said. “Running and hiding.”

“I'm still alive, aren't I?” He glanced around at the charred ruins. “Am I?” 

“Come on. You're better than this. I did not drag you out of that seaside shithole to watch you die like a sick dog to this curse.”

The word “die” echoed across the horizon.

“It’s not quite that bad,” Cyrus said.

“Just because you refuse to acknowledge the truth, it isn't any less true. Look around, Cy. Look around and actually _see_ it this time.”

He did. Realization settled heavy on his shoulders. When he spoke again, there was a note of defeat in his voice. “There’s not much left, is there?” He followed the lines of black and red, looking to where they converged on the darkened horizon. 

“I suppose I should find out what all of this is about, no?”

“You already know,” Odette said. “You just need to see it.”

Cyrus frowned. After a bit of pondering, he stooped to pick up the bust of Odette, positioning it under his arm.

“And where, exactly, do you think you’re taking me?”

“It’s terribly lonely in here,” Cyrus said. He was silent for a few steps. “Then again, it always has been, hasn’t it?”

He walked on, following as the fissures in the ground spread wider as they drew together. The lightning became more frequent, sometimes striking three or four times in startlingly loud succession. The terrain grew more difficult to navigate, and he had to make large detours around heaps of wreckage and long cracks filled with churning black and red darkness. Finally, as he rounded a particularly large pile of burning whatnot, he saw where the fissures converged. 

A large, imposing wrought iron gate stood at the edge of a border that stretched into the darkening horizon. Smoke billowed dark from beyond the gate, spewing soot and ash into the fractured sky. The wind screamed out from within.

“Well, that’s not pleasant looking at all.” Cyrus looked down at Odette tucked under his arm. “I suppose I need to go in there?”

“And some have the audacity to doubt when they hear you hailed as a genius,” the Odette bust said. “Forgive me if I don’t applaud.”

Inhaling deeply, he stepped forward. It was impossible to continue without stepping inside one of the fissures, as the entire ground on the other side of the gate was comprised of one large, swirling abyss. He had seen that there were places beneath the red and black with shallow footholds, and hesitantly, he prodded a toe into one, testing the waters. A rush of cold melancholy hit him on contact, and shivering, he withdrew his foot.

“There must be another way.”

“Well, if you don’t go in yourself, something else is going to get you in there,” Odette reasoned.

“Like what? The harpy?” Cyrus scanned the skies for the bird creature.

“Nah. Someone shrewder.” 

As Odette said this, Cyrus felt the coil tighten around his ankle. Powerful, muscled scales encircled his foot, and yanked his balance out from under him. He screamed and dropped Odette, who only laughed. The serpent pulled him in through the bars of the gate, through the murky gloom of the swirling black and red shadow.

He was pulled beneath the surface. The shadow behaved like a liquid, though was more of a miasmic gas, pooling in the depths of the cracked ground. As his head fell below, he felt it enter his nose, his mouth, his lungs… but most strikingly, his ears. Though his body was overwhelmed with cold lethargy, his ears were assailed by hundreds of jumbled but paradoxically distinct noises. Insults, jeers, laughter, taunts, snide comments, all that had either been directed at him in the past, or he had at least remembered thinking that they had been. Each sounded as fresh as the day he had first heard it, no matter how many decades had passed. They all still stung just as they had-- or rather, as they should have, but he hadn’t let them, then. He had pushed it away. In here. On the other side of the gate.

Strange how he had always pictured it as a drawer. But then, a drawer wouldn’t be nearly large enough.

He clawed for the surface, is if it were a current of water. He saw the thing that had hold of his foot, saw the reptilian scales gleaming in shades of pearl and ivory, stripes of ebony growing larger as the snake pulled him in. It pulled him upwards, holding him aloft by his ankle, and only once he could breathe free of the dark swirling shadows did the voices and sounds vanish. The creature twisted him around, and he saw-- upside-down, since he was still dangling before her-- a familiar face that he hadn’t seen in over a decade. A female upper body extending from the snake’s tail, wearing the very last evening gown she had kept from selling, a final holdout in hope for a reversal of fortunes. Behind her, too tall to see from the ground and shrouded in billowing smoke, lumbered a giant with a distinctive signet ring of a Royal official on his tree-trunk finger. He was too busy to be bothered to stop. She looked at him, this lamia version of his mother, as he gasped for air.

She had never said it out loud, and she didn’t now. She didn’t need to. Her countenance said it for her. He felt suddenly smaller, was suddenly aware of the unfamiliar wetness in his eyes. The snake part of her released him, and he plummeted to the shadowy ground.

Fortunately, he landed on a shallow area, where the swirl came only up to the middle of his shins as he stood. The black and red stuck to him, dripped off his hands like a cold sweat. He looked around, the creatures having vanished, leaving him suffocatingly alone. He kept feeling eyes on him, but as soon as he turned it was as if they looked away, vanishing into the miasma. Shapes dotted the shallows he now stood in, the lumps of fallen crows. Their final squawks echoed through the shadows, along with pulses of red-hot hatred.

He shuddered and turned, searching for the gate, for the portal back to the less hellish wastes, but the horizon was shrouded. A low rumbling sounded from beyond, louder and more bestial than the distant thunder. Whispers and murmurs reverberated in the echo, in a familiar, haunting voice. 

An overwhelming feeling of dread overtook him. He could feel it breathing behind him; he knew it was there. Yet still, he couldn’t resist, to see it there, staring at him.

He turned. There was that face, tall as he was, leering out of a fissure less than three feet behind him. Those round, burning eyes and that unceasing smile. The gigantic maw opened as he stared, deep red gullet behind eerily human teeth. It screamed, a far too human sound. 

Cyrus ran.

His feet miraculously found footholds beneath him in the swirl. He heard it lumbering out behind him, ground cracking beneath its claws. Space was constricting around him, the beast pulling the shadows towards him as he ran, Redeye drawing on the darkness to grow larger, faster, angrier. He had to make it back out. As soon as he thought this, the gate appeared, as if on command.

Cyrus dodged the serpent coils that attempted to ensnare his feet, ducked beneath the legs of the giant, hurling himself over the wreckage steaming with jeers and insults. The gate was within reach, the border of this poisonous den, but he wouldn’t make it.

He tripped, rolling across the scarred ground, and the sky erupted into laughter. The ground quaked as the heavy footsteps of the beast still approached, gaining speed, and as Cyrus scrambled to his feet, the rocky shadow gave way beneath him. He was falling, with nothing to grab hold of. He twisted in the air, seeing the cursed beast’s face leering down at him over the edge. He closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do.

Something caught his wrists, jerking him to a stop. He thudded against the side of the cliff, hard. He cried out at the sudden pain.

“Give me your other hand, you’re gonna fall.”

Cyrus looked up. Positioned in an alcove, leaning over the edge to grab his wrist, was Therion. He wore the dancer’s outfit Primrose had gotten for him in Wellspring, bangles on his wrist and all. Except he had no bruises, or cuts, or even scars, and his eyes shone. Cyrus reached for him, and Therion grabbed his other hand.

"I got you, come on."

Cyrus kicked with his legs, but somehow, they couldn’t make contact with the side of the cliff. It was as if it receded every time he reached for it.

"I can't," he said hopelessly.

"You gotta help,” Therion said. “I can't do it otherwise."

Cyrus focused his strength. He had never tried to pull himself up with just his arms before, and wasn’t sure he could do it. He could hear rumbling below him, as if whatever was at the bottom of the pit was now climbing up to meet him. With a shout of effort, he pulled until he could clasp one hand on the ledge. Therion pulled at his shoulder, hoisting him up. As soon as he was out of the pit, the surroundings flashed and changed-- out of the swirl of darkness, back into the wasteland of cracked skies and burning books. They stood in a room set apart from the others, broken shards of pottery strewn around. Shelves of vases, some large, some small, some shattered utterly, and some merely dropped to the ground to crack in two pieces. Black and red miasma swirled out of each, streaming in rivulets towards the nearest fissure, to flow back to the beast. The largest, though broken into several large pieces, still retained its outward shape. It bore Odette’s name.

Therion pulled him to his feet, holding him. Vaguely, Cyrus noticed that this Therion was an inch or two taller than he was, the hair veiling his eye caught lightly in the wind, and his skin glowing with warmth. There was another sideways vase behind him, as if he was protecting it-- this one still whole, though with a deep, scarring crack running the length of it.

"Therion... I..." He couldn't finish the thought. As hard as he tried to force words from his lips, he was rendered mute.

Therion nodded. "It's okay."

The monster roared at them from over the horizon, the sky slowly darkening as it made its approach. 

“It’s coming,” Cyrus said.

“Yeah. It has been.” Therion nodded. “It used to be kind of nice in here, you know?”

“This is… this is me.” He touched his hand to his forehead. 

Therion smiled. It was a spark of beauty in the desolation. “Too smart for your own good. But, since I _am_ a figment of your imagination, I do have a question for you.” He motioned down to the revealing dancer’s outfit. “Why this?”

A hint of a smile played around Cyrus’ lips. “I don’t have an answer for you that you’ll like.”

Therion scoffed, but grinned. 

The beast’s roar echoed, the thump of its massive footsteps approaching. Therion’s smile fell. “You know what you have to do. You know how to weaken it. You know where you need to go.”

“How could I possibly?” Cyrus asked. “It’s done all this. Look at this,” he motioned with his hands. “There’s… there’s nothing here. I have nothing.”

"'Course you do," Therion said, grabbing his shoulders, whirling him around to face the beast. It leered at the edge of the gate and reached out to crush the iron within one immense claw. It stomped forward, and Cyrus retracted, feeling Therion’s body behind him. Cyrus looked back at him, panic-stricken.

Therion grinned. "You got me."

"I--"

"Go. Don't worry. I got you." 

With Therion's hands on his shoulders, pressing him forward, Cyrus stepped towards the beast. As soon as he did, a circle of light appeared above him, spreading through the shattered sky.

A sweet, saintly voice echoed from above.

_O Aelfric, bringer of the Flame!_  
Sacred light, shine forth.  
I call upon thee to lend thy strength.  
Bring about a miracle like no other, a testament to thy holy power.  
Let the Flame illuminate our path as we travel beset by darkness.  
Please protect us, keep us, shelter us beneath the veil of thy guidance.  
In Aelfric's name, we will be saved! 

The beast pulled back, hesitating.

Cyrus looked up at it. As he took a step forward, the ground beneath his foot altering itself from blackened, cracked dirt to the polished marble of a fine hall. He stepped forward again, the floor once again transforming. A fine jade pattern emerged in the marble, the same as found in the special collections of the Academy Library.

Redeye watched him with blank, hollow eyes from the top of a fallen, grand bookshelf-- the one from his father's study in the old house, the one that scaled all the way to the ceiling. It had always looked, to a small boy, as horrifically imposing, insurmountable. The beast matched it in immense size, watching him approach. Cyrus reached out, and felt Therion’s hand in his, though he didn’t look to see that he was there. He just knew.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Cyrus called out.

The beast laughed, grinning wide. Its laughter was echoed by the hundred voices from the shadows of memory. When Redeye recovered itself, it leaned down, its flat, blank face standing parallel to Cyrus, less than an arm’s length away. 

Cyrus did not run.

“I’m done feeding you,” Cyrus said. “Whatever pain there might be, I’m not going to let you use it against me any longer.”

Redeye grinned wide, its smile spanning all the way across its gigantic face. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Cyrus said again, almost convinced.

“YoU sHoULd Be.”

Redeye opened its maw, and in one swift motion, bit down around Cyrus, enclosing him in darkness. The pull of the melancholy was a hundred hands tugging him down, a burning cold enveloped his skin, and he felt himself fading, shrinking, falling. 

And small, distant, like a dying star, there was a tiny bright light. He reached for it, with the last of his will.

His eyes opened, and a beautiful, effervescent face peered down at him, blue eyes full of hope.

"Professor Albright?" Ophilia asked, her hands clenched together in prayer.

He spoke without thinking, as he had not yet regained full sense of his faculties, muttering something about angels truly existing. The heavenly face reddened and receded, as Cyrus regained a better sense of his surroundings.

He noted a few things. One: he was lying in a bed in a well-lit room, seeming to be another one in the Flamesgrace Cathedral. Two: his body felt weak and numb, his limbs barely responsive. Three: the only voice he could hear in his thoughts was his own. This was reassuring. Four: he did not see Therion. This was not reassuring.

Vaguely, he was aware of someone saying his name. He turned to find Primrose repeating it with a more and more impatient tone. She had been trying to get his attention for some time, it seemed.

“I hear you,” he said, startled by the dryness of his throat. “Might I get something to drink?”

Alfyn was there with a glass of water. “How are ya feelin’, bud?”

“Better, now, I think.” He took a long drink. “I assume that is thanks to your gracious efforts. Thank you.” 

Ophilia smiled warmly, but Primrose crossed her arms over her chest. H’aanit stood behind her.

“Your blood is black,” Primrose said.

“I did notice that.” Cyrus nodded, his tone overly matter-of-fact. “It is terribly unsettling.”

“It’s a bit more than--” 

“Where’s Therion?”

\--- --- ---

Therion had been silent, glaring out at the guards standing on the other side of the bars and curling his tunic more tightly around his shoulders. The tiny prison was not heated. He missed his scarf. His mind had boiled with choice insults for the two Knights Ardente guards outside the cell, but he didn’t give voice to any of them. Not until he knew for sure, one way or the other. 

He had resisted sleep for as long as he could, but he had never been great at staying awake when sleep demanded him. He had been having the same nightmares every night, where he was back there, in the den of thieves, his body not his own, nothing but a whirl of faceless menace and pain and fear and humiliation. But what he was really afraid of was when they were over, and he woke up, and he would be alone.

All the same, it was unavoidable. The guard outside his cell barely noticed when Therion began twitching in his sleep, breathing coming in shallow gasps behind clenched teeth. When he finally jolted himself awake, hands grasping for the solid wall at his back to steady himself, he winced as the flood of recollection hit him. As he was about to bring his palms up over his face, he stopped, noticing the black blood still caked into the grooves of his fingerprints. His heart was a hollow throb in his chest.

There was a knock outside. One Knight rose to answer, but a wall kept Therion from seeing who it was. The folksy drawl gave it away.

“Ophilia’s askin’ to have your prisoner released.” 

There was some grumbling from the Knight. “On whose orders?”

“Sister Ophilia Clement? Archbishop’s daughter? Just came back from the pilgrimage? She’s kind of a big deal around these parts, or so I hear.”

“And who are you?”

“Come on, man, you’ve seen me around. I’m Alfyn. Don’t make me go get her and bring her all the way down here, through the cold, interruptin’ the important stuff she’s doin’ just so she can tell you herself the same thing I’m tellin’ you now.”

The Knight grunted, then shuffled around the wall. He slapped his pockets, searching for the key to the cell. He eventually called out to his partner, and the two were hunting around the edges of the room, looking for the lost key. Therion waited until both of their backs were turned before silently shuffling to the front of the bars, angling his bound hands to pull the key out of where he had hidden it in his boot, and sliding it across the spilled hay leaking out of the insulation along the wall. As he shifted back to the far end of the cell where he had been, he made eye contact with Alfyn, who had watched the whole thing. The apothecary was grinning.

“Hey, fellas,” Alfyn said, stooping to pick up the key from where Therion had slid it. “Is this it?”

One Knight snatched the key from Alfyn while his partner berated him. The door was unlocked, and the Knight barrelled over to lift Therion by the arm, pushing him forward towards Alfyn. 

“Keep his hands bound,” the Knight advised. “Don’t want no more funny business.”

“Loud and clear, friend,” Alfyn said, and put his hand on Therion’s back to guide him out. “Come on,” he whispered to Therion. 

Therion eyed him, but kept silent until Alfyn had led them far enough away from the prison to be out of the Knight’s line of sight, standing out in the chill of the morning air. The question burst from him.

“Is he okay? Is he--”

“Professor’s fine. Woozy, but fine.” Alfyn flashed him a goofy grin. “Told us all what happened. Turn around, I’ll get your hands free.”

Therion felt the relief wash over him, and he hadn’t realized the tension in his shoulders until the apothecary’s words released it. He turned so that Alfyn could work the rope free. 

“So they’ll believe him, and not me,” Therion grumbled. “Figures. He looks upper class.”

“Hey,” Alfyn warned. “She never accused you of nothin’. She jus’ needed you outta there so Lianna could cool on off and we could figure out what all happened. She didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Sure.” Therion felt his hands slip free, and he twisted around to massage his wrists. 

“Look, I don’t come from money neither. I get what you’re sayin’. This church ain’t exactly hurtin’ for cash none. But Phili don’t judge like that. She’ll help anybody who’s needin’ help, and she keeps her wits about her when everythin’ around her’s goin’ to pieces. That’s what’s great about her.” He grinned. “Well, there’s a lot of things that are great about her, actually.”

Therion shook his head. “Let’s just go.”

Alfyn led him through some more twisting corridors on the outbuildings of the cathedral. They entered a small room with a bed and a few chairs. There was no Cyrus.

Ophilia stood. “Please accept my apologies,” she said to Therion. “I was wrong to have them--”

“Where is he?” Therion interrupted.

“The Professor went out for a walk with H’aanit,” Ophilia said, mustering some patience. “He said he needed some fresh air. He said he needed to clear his head before he saw you? They should return shortly. He’s not yet recovered his full strength.”

Therion absorbed her words. “He’s okay? The curse thing is gone?”

Ophilia shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe so. The spell seems to only alleviate symptoms. At least, that’s how it worked with His Excellency. But the Professor seems stronger.”

H’aanit returned. Alone. She looked perplexed. “Cyrus hath not returneth here? I wente to checken on Linde, and he--”

Therion was back out the door before any more discussion could be had. The only things he could think of were the look on Cyrus’ face before unconsciousness claimed him, and those words he had spoken.

_“I would rather destroy myself than hurt you again.”_

He saw the tall hill on the edge of town, the one that looked like a cliff. The gray clouds, heavy with snow, seemed to hang about the top. Therion started the climb, hoping against hope.

At the top, a figure in a black and gold hood sat, knees bent, head in hand. The other hand held a dagger. Therion froze, catching his breath from the steep climb.

“Cyrus?” he ventured.

He turned, looking back over his shoulder, almost recoiling. Therion caught the glint of tears streaking down his face before Cyrus raised his hand to block the view.

“Don’t come near,” Cyrus warned, his voice heavy. “Don’t look at me, I’m a horrid mess.”

“Why do you have that dagger?” Therion took a step forward, hands raised.

Cyrus gripped it tighter. “In case it possesses me again.” He turned, using the other hand to brush wetness from his cheeks. “You do not want to come any closer.”

Therion ignored this, and continued to approach slowly.

“You don't know how close it came. I barely restrained it.”

This stopped him, but only for a minute. “It won't.” He started forward again.

“How could you possibly know?”

“I've got a pretty good intuition about when things are gonna fuck me over. But then again, I usually expect them to. I don't think that right now.” He walked over slowly, and though Cyrus tensed watching him, there was no surge of infernal energy, no loss of himself, no resurgence of the beast. Therion sat down next to him, and reached for the dagger. As he did, he recognized it.

"Where did you get that?"

Cyrus shrugged. "I found it, I suppose. I had it with me when I started back towards Stillsnow." He turned it over in his hands.

"It's Darius'."

Cyrus stopped spinning it. "Are you certain?"

Therion nodded, biting his lower lip.

"One of them must have taken it from him," Cyrus mumbled, "and then I took it from them. Do you want it?" He held it out by the blade.

"No." He took it anyway, thrusting it down into the snowy soil at his feet, away from Cyrus. "What are you doing up here?"

"Do you mean to ask why I'm sniveling like a child?" Cyrus said, hard edge to his voice. "I needed to open those gates. I need to take away the power it has over me. I cannot allow it to use me to try to hurt you-- or anyone-- again.” He sighed, dragging a fingertip beneath each eyelid. “Once I began, though…”

Therion leaned up alongside him, wrapping an arm around him beneath his scholar’s cloak. “It’s okay. I got you.”

These words sounded exactly the same as they had in his head. The gates, now open, could no longer hold anything back. The emotion came in a flood. 

Therion just held him. 

Cyrus began talking, telling him everything, beginning with the story of a lonesome only child; of a boy alienated by circumstances from both same age and academic peers; of impossible standards and unacceptable imperfections; of a cold, emotionless, contactless household. Of feeling only annoyance at the timing of his father’s suicide, of feeling only affectionless obligation to his mother. About his mistakes and follies that he just shoveled emotionlessly into a dark place inside, never to be revisited until a grinning beast found a way to use them to burrow its way into his mind. Everything, in the entangling cadence of a celebrated lecturer that he had cultivated over the years.

Therion just held him as the tears came. And listened, as the words accompanied them. Cyrus trailed off eventually, leaving a few moments of silence before he spoke again.

“You’re a good person, Therion.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Therion said. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Cyrus’ smirk was bittersweet. He dried his eyes for the hundredth time. “I haven't felt anything like this in so long. I haven't... felt... in so long. How do people deal with this?”

“Well, I usually drink a lot and make bad decisions. I don't necessarily recommend that.”

Cyrus laughed. A true laugh. Therion hadn’t realized how long it had been since he had heard that, and how good it sounded now.

\--- --- ---

The investigation into the attack on the Archbishop continued that day, fruitlessly. Lianna didn’t leave her father’s room, though his condition remained unchanged. The Knights Ardente had been put on full alert to not let anyone in or out of the city until the mystery had been solved. 

It took Cyrus a while to recover himself enough to return to the cathedral, and he leaned heavily on Therion as they walked down the steep hill. That night, Ophilia had decided that Cyrus needed his own room in order to recover fully. Though she shooed everyone out so that he could rest, Therion had never been one to follow directions. He was back quickly, after everyone had left.

Cyrus smiled when he entered the room, and Therion almost melted into the floor. 

“I didn’t expect you to be back,” Cyrus said, sitting up beneath the covers. “I feared I had made too much of a fool of myself earlier.” 

“Nah.” Therion peeled off his tunic and kicked off his boots. He climbed into the bed, not waiting for Cyrus to shift over. He snuggled up against him, under the thick blanket. “Did it help?”

Cyrus wrapped his arm around him, kissing his forehead. “I’m not finished. There’s a lot… a lot ot go through. A lot of chaos. If you had seen…” He trailed off. He studied Therion’s face, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “You were the only one who was human. I wonder what that implies.”

Therion’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t ask. “Well, at least we can just be fucked up together.”

Cyrus smiled. Therion felt like he was looking at him differently, with new eyes… or maybe it was how he had looked at him in the beginning, before things had gotten so complicated. He couldn’t remember, but he knew it made his heart beat faster. He shifted his body to lay over Cyrus, meeting his lips in a kiss. Warmth filled him as he felt his face flushing. Under the thick wool blanket, pressed tight against Cyrus, he began to feel far too hot. Desperately, he broke away to fling aside his shirt, then resettled into Cyrus’ arms, careful around the one that still bore a thick bandage.

Cyrus’ fingers brushed over Therion’s chest. The bruises there had faded to mere shadows, though the brand on his ribs would likely never disappear. He traced light, gentle patterns in the skin, his touch tingling. Therion was just content to feel him so close. Cyrus kissed his cheek, and Therion turned to meet his lips once again, his tongue insistent against Cyrus’ lower lip until it gained entry.

Every movement of their lips together added to the desire simmering within Therion. Cyrus’ hands were on his back, caressing gently, keeping the two of them pressed against each other. Therion could feel himself reacting. He had been afraid, after everything, that he wouldn’t want it anymore-- from Cyrus or anyone. But all he wanted was to be as close as possible to Cyrus. To take the scholar’s mind off of whatever storm was raging inside his head. To let him know he wasn’t on his own. To feel, himself, that he wasn’t so alone.

Therion shifted to unbuckle his belt and slide his trousers over his hips. He felt Cyrus pause, and pull away.

“Don’t feel like you must…” Cyrus began. Therion silenced him with a kiss.

“I want to. I…” he slid his clothes off, kicking them onto the floor. He made sure he was entirely covered by the blanket. “Alfyn gave me some potions, so I’m not diseased or anything,” he added quietly. 

“I don’t want to pressure you.” Cyrus’ fingers threaded through his hair.

Therion shook his head. “I want it to be my call. And I want… I want you. And I want it to be you.” He flushed, burying his face against Cyrus’ chest. Even as he said this, and meant it, he was growing ever more aware of the feel of the blanket against his bare skin. He was beginning to feel a little uneasliy exposed. Cyrus held him close, and he sank against his still-clothed body. Therion tugged at Cyrus’ belt passively.

Cyrus’ fingers were light as they re-explored Therion’s body, the gentleness calming. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, feeling his body react even more strongly. Cyrus’ hands roamed south while he kissed him, held him, lips and tongue on his cheek, his jawline, his collarbone, his chest. His touch brushed lightly below Therion’s waist, tentative and wary, but the contact sent tremors through Therion’s nerves. He wrapped his own hand over Cyrus’, closing it around his straining desire, groaning at the touch. 

He rolled his hips to move himself against Cyrus’ hand, wanting more. Needing more. He had been so fearful that he had been ruined that he hadn’t let himself think about this. But now with Cyrus so close, so warm, we wanted nothing else but to be there with him, to feel him, to have him be part of him. He had tugged Cyrus’ belt open, and now shifted his own legs apart, the scholar’s name a whisper of need on his lips.

Cyrus’ fingers trailed downwards, and Therion leaned into it with gathering anticipation.  
But as soon as the scholar’s touch reached that sensitive opening, a bolt of adrenaline shot through him. His eyes suddenly wide with fight-or-flight instinct, he jerked back, pushing away quickly, tucking his legs up. Cyrus pulled his hands back instantly. Therion realized he was breathing heavily, and dug his hands into the mattress beneath him to steady himself. He cursed under his breath.

“It’s all right,” Cyrus said. “You’re safe.”

Therion crushed his palms against his face. “I want it, though. Why can’t…?” 

Cyrus reached for him, and Therion let himself be pulled into an embrace. _What if he really did break me?_ He tried to reach for those tendrils of sensation, but they were gone. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. There’s no need.”

Therion pressed his forehead against Cyrus’ chest, waiting for his heartbeat to steady and his breathing to stabilize. It took long enough to be concerning. But all the while, Cyrus just held him and stroked his hair, the same way he had all those nights since Stillsnow.

“As you said,” Cyrus whispered, “we can just be messed up together.”

“I said ‘fucked up.’”

“Alright.” Cyrus pulled away to look him in the eyes, utterly serious. “We’ll be fucked up together.”

Therion had never heard him swear before. It was entirely possible that Cyrus never had uttered a shred of profanity before in his life. Therion burst out laughing, and could not make himself stop. Cyrus grinned, and was soon caught up in the laughter as well.

“I’m such a bad influence on you,” Therion said, after his ribs hurt too much to keep laughing.

Cyrus kissed him. “I’m immensely glad for that.”


	32. Through the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: S'warkii, the land of sexual frustrations.

Therion woke naturally that morning. No nightmare-- at least, not any that he remembered. He opened his eyes to see Cyrus lying next to him, staring up at the ceiling. He seemed fixated on something in the middle distance.

“You okay?” Therion groggily reached for him.

Cyrus stirred out of his thoughts to smile at Therion. “Just thinking.”

“About?” 

“The nature of evil.”

Therion frowned.

“I believe I must speak to Ophilia. My theological knowledge is unfortunately lacking, but she has been especially trained as an expert in such things.”

“Okay,” Therion said slowly, curling his hand over Cyrus’ chest beneath the blanket. “But maybe in a bit.” He leaned up to kiss him, feeling the tingling spreading through him. 

Cyrus pulled Therion closer. “No rush at all.”

\--- --- ---

Ophilia carried the tray of tea and biscuits carefully through the corridor. She hadn’t made them-- another, older Sister had-- but she had wanted to take them to Lianna personally. The night before, she had managed to talk her into leaving His Excellency’s side to get some rest. If she had actually slept was another question altogether.

When Ophilia entered the room, Lianna was sitting up in bed, transfixed by the brightness in the fireplace, with a piece of parchment clutched in her hand. She hid it beneath her pillow and forced a smile for her sister. 

“Sleep any?” Ophilia asked, trying to sound as bright as she could. She brought the tray over to Lianna, setting it on the quilted bedspread.

“A little,” Lianna said. “Did you?”

Ophilia shrugged, and began to set out the two cups in their saucers between them. “I kept waiting to hear from the Captain of the Ardente, but they never reported in.”

“Oh, they did,” Lianna said, taking a biscuit. “I told them not to bother you.”

Ophilia paused in pouring out the tea. “Why--?”

“Phili, I know that you just completed the Kindling, which is a very big responsibility. But with Father…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I’ve been looking after the Cathedral all this time. It’s what I had been training for, to fulfill my role as caretaker of this place. So when there’s an issue in Flamesgrace, the Knights come to me.”

“I understand that, but…” Ophilia looked at her sister anew. They had each done a lot of growing up in the time they had been apart, that was certain. “Have they found the culprit?”

“Mattias saw him,” Lianna said, spreading the pomegranate jam carefully. “Reported to the Knights that he saw a man in black fleeing the village, to the southeast. He volunteered to help track him.”

“Mattias?” Ophilia considered. “Wait, so you allowed him to leave the city?” 

“Of course! You don’t think he--”

“The Professor said that perhaps Mattias should be brought in for some questioning.”

“The Professor?! That man who was bleeding black all over father’s study.” Lianna narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You’re going to believe anything he says?”

“There was a man in black.” Ophilia’s voice was stern. “Others confirmed seeing him. He didn’t lie about that.”

“You’re suspecting Mattias. A man who has been nothing but kind to us, whose company donated provisions for your pilgrimage, and who is one of the most pious laymen I’ve ever met? I can _not_ believe you right now.”

Ophllia frowned. “I… I don’t know. I don’t have enough information. That’s why I wanted to ask him some questions.”

“Phili…” Lianna reached to grasp her sister’s gloved hand. “Trust me. He’s on our side. The things he’s said… he’s going to do everything he can to help us.”

When Ophilia looked at her, she couldn’t hold on to any kind of mental argument. Lianna’s eyes had that spark of warmth in them that had shone through so rarely lately. Who was she to tear that scap of hope away from her?

“What has he said?” Ophilia asked. “When?”

“Well, not really said.” Lianna pulled away. “Wrote.”

Ophilia’s eyes went to her sister’s pillow. “Was that the letter? Can I see it?” Ophilia reached for it, but Lianna, flushing pink, blocked her way.

“It’s private!” Lianna caught her sister’s arm, and they struggled with each other.

“Why are you so red? What does it say?”

“Nothing!” 

Their struggle had upended the breakfast tray, spilling tea and crumbs actoss the floor.

“See what you did, now?” Lianna scolded, attempting to maintain her composure. Ophilia bent to clean up the mess, sopping up the tea with a cloth napkin.

“ _I_ did?” Ophilia chastised. “I sincerely hope that there isn’t some kind of love letter under your pillow.”

Lianna’s deep red blush was all the answer she needed. 

“Lianna, you can _not!_ ”

“What, so you can go galavanting all over the continent with your brand new boyfriend, and I’m just supposed to sit here and be miserable?”

“He is not--” Ophilia caught herself, and took a deep breath. “We are Sisters of the Sacred Flame. We do not involve ourselves in--”

“I’m not _involving_ myself in anything.” Lianna looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “It’s just nice to be complimented sometimes. Made to feel special.”

Ophilia sighed. “I know. I know.”

\--- --- ---

Ophilia left her sister, though she had prodded her to try to come out of her room and socialize, she didn’t push too hard. Her mind was too preoccupied with questions about that letter, obviously penned by Mattias; about this vanished hooded figure; about the curse H’aanit had spoken of; about the whispers of something, almost from a dream, that had been echoing through her head since she had performed that ancient spell to bring the Professor back to consciousness. Then, as she turned a corner, it was as if he was summoned from her thoughts-- he appeared with Therion beside him.

“Ah, Sister Ophilia!” There was a renewed brightness to Cyrus that would melt the coldest heart in Flamesgrace. “Just the girl I’ve been hoping to find!”

“I… er…” Ophilia flushed, as many did who were unaccustomed to the intensity of Cyrus’ smile and piercing gaze. She fumbled with the serving tray. 

“Oh, please, allow me.” Cyrus swept the tray from her, all chivalry. He started walking in the direction they had come, and Ophilia followed his lead. “How fares your sister?”

“She’s… she’s well. I think.” Ophilia was having a difficult time meeting his eyes. Therion watched her nervousness from behind her, curious. “How are you feeling?” Ophilia asked, composing herself.

“Well enough. Thanks to your gracious attentions, that is. I am certainly in your debt.” Cyrus said this with a slight bow of his head, a smile directed solely at the cleric. He meant it as earnest gratitude, but when someone who looked like he did gave you their complete attention like that… well, Therion knew exactly the effects it had on him. Ophilia stared at the corridor ahead of her, and unconsciously hastened her step.

"Have you seen Primrose yet this morning?” she asked quickly. Before Cyrus could answer, she continued. “I should go make sure that breakfast has been arranged for her and the others. I’ll see you in the main dining hall!” With that, she hurried off down the hall.

“We simply don’t deserve your benevolence and grace,” Cyrus called after her. Therion caught up with him with a few quick steps.

“Do you want to maybe stop flirting with the cleric girl?” Therion whispered. “I don’t think she can handle it.”

Cyrus shot him a look, offended. “I’m not--” He stopped. “Goodness, what did I say?”

Therion smirked. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Cyrus scoffed. “I feel that it is simply unfair that what I intend as simple polite conversation gets interpreted with all these quasi-romantic subtexts. I assure you, I mean nothing of the sort.”

“I know.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Do you? Because earlier, when we began traveling with Primrose…”

Therion slowed, pondering. He had been fiercely jealous before. What was different, now? “I just know,” he said finally.

Cyrus flashed him a smile and threw an arm around his shoulder as they continued down the corridor.

\--- --- ---

Primrose sat at the crowded breakfast table, toying with her oatmeal more than eating it. She would dig a hole in the center of the milky mush, then slowly watch it fill back in, then smooth over the top with the spoon. Dig another hole, watch it seep back into the gap, until it was like it had never happened at all, the surface of the beige breakfast as uninteresting as ever. They didn’t have any berries, or cinnamon, and too much honey would be ‘vain,’ the cleric who served them informed her. Sleeping next to H’aanit would have been ‘improper’. Staying up talking with her would have been ‘imprudent’. _Gods, how I hate Flamesgrace._

She listened with half an ear to Cyrus and the cleric girl chat about magic, to Alfyn tell H’aanit about the way they used to trap frogs back in his hometown, to Therion crunch down on his fifth slice of toast, and she wondered again what she was doing here, and not in Noblecourt, reclaiming what had been taken from her. But then she thought of that crow’s knife against her throat, and how she hadn’t been able to move a muscle against him. 

“So the reason I bring up elemental resonances,” Cyrus was saying, “was because the incident with that fellow attacking the Archbishop served only to confirm my suspicions. The blood magic, Redeye, and this illness cast upon the Archbishop by this nefarious fellow who had managed to channel it. It all has the exact same aura. It all stems from the same source. The darkest of the dark."

Ophilia's eyes widened. "You don't mean..."

Cyrus nodded slowly. "Galdera."

Though he said this matter-of-factly, the hush that descended around the table was instant and complete. Ophilia drew her hands up over her mouth. "You can't say that name! Not in here!" 

Cyrus sipped his tea.

"I thought you didn't believe in the Gods." Prim said, giving him a sideways look. She heard Therion resume his toast-crunching at her left.

"It's not a god.” Cyrus set his teacup down with a deliberate clink. “It's an arcane concept that designates the end of a spectrum of elements and attributes."

"Oh.” Alfyn laughed nervously. “I thought it was the evil God."

"He is!" Ophilia hissed. "He is the fallen, the source of all suffering. He turned away from the Sacred Light only to be imprisoned by Aelfric! He plots now to return and consume all of creation to infect it with his malice!"

Therion nudged Cyrus. “Yeah, see, that makes way more sense than what you said.” Cyrus stifled his smirk.

Primrose shook her head. "So, now we have to fight this... God instead of the curse beast?"

"You can't fight a God," Ophilia said.

"You can't fight a theoretical concept," Cyrus corrected. "But magic is comprised of dualities. That's why I was interested in your father's study. I thought the lore of the church might hold some clues to what we could do to combat the effects of this… evil."

Ophilia nodded, thinking. “Neither Lianna nor I are allowed in His Excellency’s study.”

“If it’s ta help, though, do ya really think he’d mind?” Alfyn asked.

As Ophilia pondered, there was a knock at the door. A member of the Knights Ardente, his helmet under his arm, entered with a bow.

“Apologies for the interruption.” He nodded to the huntress, who had been quietly finishing her breakfast. “You wouldn’t happen to be H’aanit, of S'warkii?”

Her cold eyes narrowed. “Who asketh?”

“We received a message from Captain Eliza Woodward.”

H’aanit stood to receive the letter. “How doth she--”

“Says she heard from a woman named Natalia you were on your way to Stillsnow. But if we ran into you here…” The Knight shrugged.

“You know Captain Eliza?” Ophilia asked as H’aanit’s eyes scanned the letter.

“She is the one who chargen my Master to slayeth the Redeye.” 

“Eliza used to be stationed here,” Ophilia explained. “She was captain of the city guard when I first arrived here.”

H’aanit shushed her. “I muste concentrate. Her hand is a challenge to readeth.”

Primrose peered at the letter over her shoulder. “Marsalim,” she said.

“Aye. They hath spotted the beast there.” H’aanit met Primrose’s eyes. “That is where we goen.” She turned to nod to Cyrus and Therion.

“That’s the Sunlands…” Prim said, pulling back.

“Sure, why not,” Therion scoffed. “Just keep turning circles around the continent. Any way we can convince this thing to meet us halfway?”

“I cannot help you,” Cyrus said. Eyes turned to him. “I know that I said I would lend my aid in any way I could, but…” He shook his head. “If some lesser manifestation of this power was able to compromise me so completely, I simply cannot trust myself to confront the creature itself. Not while it still has such a firm grip over me. My apologies.”

“I coulde not have slain that dragon without thine help,” H’aanit said. The group was silent. “Mayhaps Sister Ophilia can findeth something in her books? What of the spell she hath already used?”

Ophilia shook her head. “I don’t even fully understand that spell.”

“It seems more of a treatment of symptoms, than a cure,” Cyrus said. “And I believe…” He looked down at his hands folded in his lap. “I believe there are things I can do to loosen its hold. But it will take time. Time we likely do not have.”

The travelers sat in heavy silence until the clatter of Alfyn's spoon broke the spell.

“Shoot, I’ll help,” Alfyn said. “After I get that feather we need for the Archbishop’s medicine, mix it up right good, and send it back here, I’m up for fightin’ this critter.”

“Thank thee,” H’aanit said. “But even with thy strength, I feare it may not be enough. Mayhaps we visiten S'warkii. Asken the hunters there for aide.”

“I will see what His Excellency’s study holds,” Ophilia said, convinced. “Professor, perhaps you could assist me?”

“My dear, I thought you’d never ask.”

\--- --- ---

Ophilia knew she had to go speak to Lianna, though she was dreading the guilt the conversation would bring. She and the Professor had returned to His Excellency’s study, to find Lianna at his bedside, eyes red. She straightened uncomfortably at the sight of Cyrus, and dashed out of the room despite Ophilia’s calls to her. She let Cyrus retrieve some books-- he seemed to know exactly which ones he wanted-- and while he went on to the main room to pour over them, Ophilia attempted to talk to her sister. Lianna had locked herself in her room, and wouldn’t respond to Ophilia’s knocks.

“Please, Lianna,” she begged, “I need to talk to you.”

“Why?” The voice was muffled by the thick wooden door. “You’re just going to leave again.” 

These words hit Ophilia like a flood. She hadn’t really given herself time to think about it, but Lianna was right. Alfyn was going to retrieve the ingredients for the medicine-- he said he needed to venture out to the Cliftlands for that-- and she was confronted with a group of people who desperately needed her help, her magic, her healing, if they were to fight this thing that plagued them. Of course she was leaving. 

“Lianna, we both took an oath to help those who--”

“Shut up about our oaths,” Lianna snapped. Her voice seemed closer, perhaps coming just from the other side of the door. “You just go. Go see the world, go do the Kindling, go fall in love, go save the world. I’ll just stay here and watch our Father die.”

The tears welled up in Ophilia’s eyes. She tried to calm herself. _She’s emotional. She’s going through a rough time. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s letting jealousy get the best of her. She doesn’t mean it._

“Please, let’s just talk.”

But she wouldn’t. Despite Ophilia’s pleading, Lianna would neither open the door, nor say another word. So, tears in her eyes, Ophilia left behind her town, her sick father, and her weeping sister once again. Before she did, however, she checked in with the Knights Ardente, arranging that there would be a full-time, rotating guard over both His Excellency and Lianna, lest the attacker return. Additionally, though she felt a pang of guilt swamp her, she told the Captain of the guard to bar Mattias of the Leonel Consortium from entering the cathedral, or speaking to Lianna without one of the Knights present. 

She had barely unpacked her things from her pilgrimage, so it was easy to pack them up again and join the group of travelers on their way out of the city. The very last thing she did was pick up a purple scarf from the laundry, and present it to Therion.

“This is the same one?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

“We take in the sick and injured all the time,” Ophilia said, “and we all wear white. Clerics are very skilled at removing stains from fabric.”

The path to the Woodlands was wide and well-maintained, as the carriage road between Victor’s Hollow and Flamesgrace was a popular one. Alfyn took the lead, as he always had when it had just been he and Ophilia traveling together, warning about bumps in the road and scavenging for useful herbs to tuck away in his satchel. Primrose and H’aanit followed, both attempting to seem ready for the journey, though each holding their private reservations. Linde rejoined her Mistress outside the city, following dutifully. Trailing behind were Cyrus and Therion, talking in voices too low for the rest of the travelers to hear.

They made it out of the snow-covered Frostlands before they camped for the night. Sitting around the fire, Cyrus poured over the books he had borrowed from the Archbishop’s study, peppering Ophilia with questions about the theological contexts, jarring her again and again from her guilt, until she finally settled herself nearer to him to better contribute to his ever-growing pages of notes. Alfyn and H’aanit prepared dinner, Alfyn having a wide selection of various herbs and spices that had flavoring properties as well as healing ones, and H’aanit knowing which combinations would be the tastiest with the porky meat of the mossy meeps she had brought down on the trail. Primrose sat by Linde, absently scratching behind the leopard’s ears. Therion squatted down next to her.

“Marsalim’s in the Sunlands,” he said.

“I’m aware,” Prim responded.

“You freaked out about going back to the Sunlands before.”

“I’m aware,” she repeated, her voice harsh.

“You gonna freak out again?” 

“Depends.” She finally looked at him, brow furrowed. “Are you going to accuse me of trying to seduce Cyrus again?”

Therion bristled. He had meant to start an actual conversation to see if she was concerned. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at opening up heart-to-heart discussions. “Why, you gonna try?”

Primrose scoffed and rolled her eyes. Her annoyance was enough to quiet all further inquiries until Alfyn called over that dinner was ready. Therion never needed to be told that twice.

They ate, and then each drifted away to sleep. Ophilia lay awake a long time, listening to the sounds of the forest, thinking about her sister. She had told herself that leaving was the right thing to do. These people needed her help. She had taken an oath. Alfyn had to leave to retrieve the ingredient he needed to save His Excellency. But she kept thinking about those few days when Alfyn had been gone up to Stillsnow, and how she had missed his presence. She’d missed his smile, his laugh, and him just… being near her. Now, she could hear his breathing in the dark nearby, and though it brought a feeling of comfort, it also weighed her down with selfish guilt. _Did I come along because I truly wanted to help? Or because I couldn’t bear for him to leave without me?_

She was shaken out of her thoughts by some frantic noises-- rustling of movement in the carpet of dried leaves and heavy, panicked breathing. There were muffled yelping noises like something in pain. She reached for her staff, alert, ready to fight whatever creature was coming at them in the darkness, but was concerned over how the cries did sound particularly human. 

As she gripped her staff, she heard more movement, and a soothing, shushing sound, along with a voice.

“Shh. It’s alright. You’re alright.” It was the Professor’s voice. Ophilia’s grip loosened.

“Shit, that one seemed so real.” Therion’s whisper, from the same space in the darkness. “Where--?”

“The Woodlands. Between Flamesgrace and S'warkii.”

“Okay.” More rustling, as Therion sat up. Ophilia could almost make out their shadows in the darkness, so close to each other. “Sorry, I woke you up.”

“Never a problem. I’d much rather you woke me than you have to deal with it on your own.”

“Last night, I was fine. I thought maybe…”

Ophilia saw the space between them close, saw the edges of the shadows touch, heard the kiss, and suddenly realized all of her assumptions had been wildly incorrect. She felt again like the naïve, sheltered churchgirl she had been brought up as, as she swallowed down the unease within her, ingrained from years of the teachings of the Sacred Flame. And she suddenly realized she was lost in the darkened woods, with practical strangers and a boy who had made her question everything, leaving her family, her certainty, and her conviction behind her in Flamesgrace. 

Ophilia hugged her knees close to her chest, listening to the lonely cry of an owl in the shadowed trees, and moved her lips in a silent prayer for clarity of mind.

\--- --- ---

H’aanit found S’warkii just as she had left it, and just as it had always been. Linde began sniffing the air as they approached the village, recalling all the familiar scents of her cubhood. The treetop sentry spotted them first, hailing the huntress and climbing down from his perch to greet her and her guests. He approached, slinging his bow over his fur-covered shoulder, anxiously scanning the unfamiliar faces for Z’aanta. H’aanit made the introductions.

“And where be thine master?” the sentry asked. “Thou leavest us to finden him.”

Therion’s eyes widened with sudden realization. His voice was muffled panic. “Oh Gods, they’re all gonna talk like that here, aren’t they?”

Cyrus flashed him a subdued, sideways smirk.

H’aanit, fortunately, didn’t hear him. She hardened her gaze at the sentry. “I hath founde him, but he hast been cursed. I hath come to seeken aide in slaying the beast, and in lifting the curse.”

The sentry frowned. “Come. Alerten the Village Headman. We shalle callen a meeting.”

S’warkii was miniscule compared to the grandeur of cities like Flamesgrace or Atlasdam, or even the rustic sprawl of Stillsnow or Bolderfall. Word of H’aanit’s return and the guests she had brought spread quickly, bringing villagers from their modest homes. The Elder, a dour, cranky-faced man, emerged to confront the group.

“Thou hast brought quite the troupe with thee, H’aanit,” he said, frowning. “Though I notice that not among them is your Master. They coulde see about rooms at the inn, though I thinke it be full with travelers bound for the tournament in Victor’s Hollow.”

“They can stayen at mine Master’s house,” H’aanit said coldly. “I seeke a meeting with the hunters, to tellen what I hath founde of the beast and mine Master’s fate.”

“Z’aanta is dead, then?”

H’aanit bristled. “Cursed. I shalle break it, with the aide of the hunters.”

The Elder frowned. “Many of our remaining strongest are out on a hunt this day. Thou canst speaken to them on their return tonight, I suppose. I shalle arrange it.”

“Thank thee,” H’aanit said, with a nod of her head. The Elder grunted, and wandered back into the house he had emerged from.

“What’s his problem?” Primrose whispered.

“He doth not care for my Master,” H’aanit explained. “Some falling out from their youths.” She shook her head. “Though I never thoughte it meaneth he doth not care for I.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Mine Master’s home is up that hill. We canst rest there until the hunters returneth.”

The house was small, and had sat abandoned since H’aanit had embarked on her quest southward. She had to shoulder the door open, stirring up clouds of dust that swirled in the doorway. 

Ophilia coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. “Looks like you could use some help tidying up.”

“The house hast sat unused since I lefte the village,” H’aanit said, “and mine Master hath not been home for the year ere that.”

“Well, just point me toward the broom!” Ophilia beamed.

H’aanit gave them the tour of the tiny house, that consisted of four rooms: the front sitting room, with the open kitchen on one side; Z’aanta’s bedroom, situated through a door beside the hearth; H’aanit’s attic room, which stood at the top of a narrow staircase; and a back storeroom that had another stair to the root cellar.

“I suppose thou might stayen in mine Master’s room,” H’aanit nodded to Cyrus. “It seemeth right.”

“Because I’m old?” Cyrus teased her.

H’aanit smirked. “Because I think he woulde taken a liking to thee. The both of thee haven a love of stories. Though I woulde wager yours art more truthful than his.” She grew sullen after this statement. Primrose touched her shoulder. 

“We’ll get him back,” she said softly.

The travelers had some time to kill, cleaning the dust out of the house and off of themselves. H’aanit watched in a dissociated haze as the travelers went about the mostly abandoned house: Ophilia finding that broom and sweeping, Alfyn carrying in water from the stream behind the house for baths and laundry while Primrose sorted out their spare clothes, Cyrus taking an inventory of their supplies to see what they needed to purchase, and Therion climbing the apple tree in the yard to toss down some just-ripened fruit. Linde nosed a pile of furs she and Hägan used to curl up on, and found herself a place before the cold hearth. The tiny house had never been so busy. It was simultaneously heartening and concerning.

As the sky began to darken and Alfyn began to prepare dinner, the hollers and whoops of the returning hunting party could be heard over the travelers’ conversation. H’aanit and Linde turned together to the source of the distant noise, while the others’ voices trailed off. H’aanit stood, Linde crossing to her side.

“I shalle speake to them. Wishen me luck.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Primrose said, standing as well. “For… moral support.”

H’aanit gave her a small smile.

“I would ask your permission to come along as well,” Cyrus said. “Mostly due to sheer curiosity.” 

H'aanit nodded. “I shalle be the one to speaken.” 

“Of course.” Cyrus pressed a finger over his lips to ensure his silence. 

As they moved towards the door, Ophilia looked anxiously to Alfyn. “Do… do we go too?” she whispered.

“Nah,” Therion said from his cross-legged place on the floor, where he had been sharpening his dagger. “Unless you want the headache of trying to figure out what they’re trying to actually say, while we only get in the way.”

H’aanit led the way towards the bonfire being lit in the center of the village, with Linde, Prim, and Cyrus close behind her. The triumphant hunters were laughing and carousing, while others were preparing their kills for either the spit or the drying rack. They recognized H’aanit as she and Linde approached, meeting her with a mix of happy greeting and muttered whispers about the absence of Z’aanta. The village headman managed to get them settled down on the fallen logs crowding the firepit.

H’aanit waited calmly for the group to quiet themselves, Prim and Cyrus sitting behind her. Her voice was calm and steady, hiding all signs of nervousness. She was candid with her fellow hunters, explaining everything from Hägan’s return to the village, to her travel down to Stonegard and finding Z’aanta petrified by the curse. She explained the history and effects of the curse, as Susanna had explained it, and how she was experiencing it. She described the fight with the dragon-- which won her some jeers and shouts of approval from the crowd-- and she mentioned Cyrus’ aid just before describing how the beast had taken control of him in Flamesgrace. She finished with a heartfelt warning, from her own mental conversations with the beast, how she knew that Redeye would stop at nothing to end, consume, or take control of all living things it-- or its far-reaching curse-- was able to touch. Primrose watched with widening eyes at this last part-- H’aanit had never mentioned the beast speaking to her. She looked to Cyrus, whose face was a mask of gravity, only confirming H’aanit’s words. _And we have to fight this thing?_ She swallowed hard.

When H’aanit had finished making her case, the hunters stared at her for a long while. Finally, one stood up, clearing his throat. He had spiky hair and a deep scar on his left cheek.

“Letten me understand,” he said. “This beast hath bested Z’aanta. The strongest hunter in S’warkii. The strongest mayhap hath ever lived.”

There were general grunts of agreement from the assembled crowd. The scarred hunter continued. “And thou, by the headman’s reckoning, art the second strongest. And thou dost not think thou canst defeat it, either?”

H’aanit said nothing. She stared at him, giving an imperceptible nod.

“And thou, and thy companion, hath been cursed by this beast. It inhabits thy thoughts. It hath taken control of thy companion’s actions.” There were murmurs from the crowd, and eyes flashed at Cyrus. The hunter shook his head. “Thou art asking us to goen to our deaths.”

“Nay!” H’aanit called out, anger surging in her voice. “Without thine aid, mine Master will--”

“We hath survived without Z’aanta for more than a year!” Another hunter called out, rising. “How canst the village survive without us?” There were cries of agreement from the others. 

“Z’aanta is an old man,” the scarred hunter said. “You asken us to sacrifice the lives of the many young and strong for the old and the weak.”

H’aanit’s eyes flashed. “Mine Master is not weak!” 

The scarred hunter’s hand went for his knife, while H’aanit’s reflexively landed on the axe handle at her waist. Primrose stood behind H’aanit, conscious of the dagger in her skirt, while Cyrus merely watched the situation, passively stretching the fingers of his spell-casting hand. The village headman rose, moving himself between the two, as other hunters rose around the first. 

“Calm thyselves!” The headman ordered. “T’is no aid to anyone to fighten each other!” The scarred hunter settled back into his seat, and H’aanit relaxed her tensed muscles. 

Cyrus stood. “If I may…” he began.

“We doth not wish to hearen flowery words from an outsider,” the second hunter who had spoken interrupted. “Save thy breath.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes at him, but was otherwise unfazed. “Then listen to one of your own. She hides nothing from you, openly pleading for your aid, to save another of your own. You have advantages that Z’aanta did not-- knowledge of the beast’s strengths and attacks, and where it resides. Additionally, you have the strength of numbers. Every one who lends his strength contributes to a force that will be far more than the sum of its parts, with the right preparation.”

The hunter stared at him. “And wilt thou be fighting, as well?”

Cyrus had no answer but to meet the hunter’s incensed glare. 

The village headman intervened again. “Sitten. All of thee.” They sat. “Now, H’aanit.” He turned to her. “Thou hast been closer to Z’aanta than any of us here, as his 'prentice. But I canst not, in good faith, losen more hunters to this beast. What shalle become of our village, then, with none left to trainen the next generation?”

“Then it shalle feeden on others!” H’aanit said.

“In Marsalim,” one of the hunters scoffed. There were grunts and laughter.

“Indeed,” the village headman said. “Why shouldest we risken the future of S’warkii for one man?”

“Master Z’aanta woulde hath never ignored a call for aid!” H’aanit spat.

The headman smiled patronizingly. “And looketh where that hath landed him.”

H’aanit exhaled loudly, slowly, attempting to cool the anger boiling within her. Her fists were clenched tight at her sides. Linde was up on her paws, responding to her Mistress’ subdued anger. Primrose’s hand had found the back of H’aanit’s shoulder, and she watched the huntress’ mouth twitch. A few tense moments passed.

“Fine.” H’aanit said sharply. “Any that wishen to accompany me in mine hunt are welcome. Any that hath actual respect for mine Master, not merely breathing the words, are welcome.” She stood, glowering at the assembled crowd. “And any that rememberen the purpose of this village, of our clan, of our calling as hunters… they may joinen me at dawn.” 

She stood abruptly and marched off towards home, Linde at her heels. She was too angry to remember Primrose and Cyrus. Prim went after her, ignoring the eyes of the hunters who watched her go, and was closing the distance between the fire and the huntress when she glanced back at Cyrus. He was still sitting at the fire, watching the reactions of the hunters, who sat open mouthed, looking at each other to see who would speak first. Primrose hissed his name, and he fluttered to his feet, following them. 

“I was curious to discover what they would say after she was gone,” he whispered at Primrose’s furrowed brow. H’aanit had marched off ahead of them, oblivious to the muted laughter starting back up around the fire. 

“No, you didn’t,” Primrose sighed. 

Cyrus frowned over his shoulder as they continued walking. The laughter had grown louder, the scarred hunter gesticulating before the fire. “No. Quite the disappointment.”

\--- --- ---

H’aanit shut herself up in her room, too angry to bother hosting her guests. She stormed by Alfyn stirring the soup pot on the hearth, and the apple slices Ophilia was showing Therion how to carve into whimsical shapes. She slammed the upstairs door behind her. All three stared at the shadows at the top of the stairs.

“I don’t think it went well,” Therion said, before biting the head off of an apple slice bunny.

“Should I… should I go talk to her?” Ophilia asked, paralyzed. Luckily, she was saved by the return of Primrose and Cyrus, looking flustered. Primrose glanced around.

“Upstairs,” Alfyn said, gesturing with his ladle. Primrose nodded, and chased up the stairs. Eyes turned to Cyrus instead.

“I wish I had good tidings,” he said, settling onto a chair. Therion handed him an apple bunny. Cyrus studied it.

“We don’t need them,” Therion said. He met Cyrus’ eyes. “You all took down that entire cathedral full of thieves. And we got them.” He angled a thumb at Ophilia and Alfyn. “No problem.”

Cyrus held his gaze. “You don’t know it. It’s not in your head.”

Therion popped the last bit of apple into his mouth.

When Alfyn decided the food was done, he poured out a bowl for each of the travelers downstairs. They sat around the modest kitchen table, discussing anything but the reason they were there. Eventually, Primrose descended to get some stew to bring up for H’aanit and herself. She didn’t stay longer than she needed to get the food and mutter some thanks to Alfyn for cooking.

Ophilia tried to make some smalltalk to lighten the mood, but her heart was still back in Flamesgrace with Lianna. Instead, she just asked Alfyn what was in the soup, and that launched him into a whole tangentially related story about searching for truffles in the tree-covered upper Riverlands. It was enough to carry them forward until Cyrus excused himself, ready to retire for the night.

“You’re taking Z’aanta’s room?” Alfyn asked.

Cyrus looked up at him as he collected his and Therion’s empty dishes. “That’s what H’aanit suggested, unless you two would rather…?”

“No,” Ophilia said quickly, flushing red.

Alfyn laughed nervously. “Nah, we’ll pull up the bedrolls out here. Y’all go ahead.”

Cyrus glanced at Therion, who hefted himself up to follow, and Ophilia blushed harder.

“You okay?” Alfyn asked, crossing to her.

\--- --- ---

H’aanit was seated on her bed, unlacing her boots, when Primrose came up with dinner for the both of them. They ate in mostly silence, Prim knowing that H’aanit needed to sort through her thoughts. She could feel the sense of betrayal hanging around the huntress. When they finished eating, Primrose collected up the dishes, but just stacked them on a smal bedsidel table. She didn’t have any desire to go back downstairs to the others. H’aanit remained on the bed, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.

Prim sank down next to her, her fingers sliding up over her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll come around,” she said softy. “Maybe you can talk to them again in the morning. One-on-one.”

“They doth not seen me as a leader. I am not a man like they, so they shalt not follow.” She shook her head. “And they hath given up. They thinken not of what lies beyond the Woodlands. They thinken not of what my Master hath done for them in times past. They shalle not be convinced by one such as me. They thinken only of their comfort now. Of their fear of the worlde.” H’aanit turned to her. “They hath not seen what I hath.”

Primrose gave her a tired smile, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. H’aanit touched the hand on her shoulder, and Prim moved her kiss to H’aanit’s lips. There was the small reaction, the tentative movement, like a deer edging towards a stream. But before Primrose could get the satisfaction of the connection, H’aanit pulled away, the deer bounding away into the forest. The huntress’ face was flushed, her breathing heavy.

Prim had been expecting this. After that night in the hot springs-- when Therion’s storming out had interrupted their first kiss-- H’aanit had confessed to her that she had never been intimate with anyone before. Having now seen her tiny woodland village-- and the inhabitants of it-- Primrose could see why. So they had backtracked. Prim had found it endearing, in a way-- she had been forced to mature so quickly herself, she had never really had that teenage awkwardness and excitement. At least, not like that. So they had sat close to each other, held hands, cuddled together at night, sharing each other’s warmth. Primrose had pushed a little further some times, snaking her hands beneath H’aanit’s furs, along the smooth skin there, feeling her body react. Other times, she had moved H’aanit’s hands over her own stomach or hips or breast, the huntress’ hands always cautious but firm. But there was always something, like there was now, holding her back. She had hoped that in the safety and security of her home, her room, H’aanit might open up to her.

“Forget them,” Primrose said. “You’ll find a way. I know you will.”

“They are right.” H’aanit dropped her eyes. “If the beast overpowered my Master, how canst I hope to fighten it?”

“Have faith,” Primrose said. 

“Faith shalle be thy shield,” H’aanit mused. “It sayeth such on thine dagger.”

Primrose nodded slowly. “It was my father’s. They are the words of my family.”

“Faith in what?” H’aanit asked. “Not the Gods.”

“No,” Primrose shook her head. “Faith in yourself. That’s the only thing you can depend on, in the end.”

H’aanit leaned in, lifting Primrose’s hand to place a kiss on the back of it. “I hath faith in thee.”

\--- --- ---

Upon entering the bedroom downstairs, Cyrus unhooked his cloak, and looked around for a place to set it. The small room was mostly taken up by the large bed, swathed in furs, and the walls were adorned with various parts of beasts-- an impressive rack of antlers, a striped tiger pelt, a shark’s jaw, some long plumed feathers, and a skull that either belonged to a very large lizard or a small dragon. The only other furniture was a small bedside table. Cyrus just tossed his cloak over the headboard of the bed.

“Creepy in here,” Therion said, closing the door behind them. “We’re supposed to sleep with all of these animal ghosts around us?”

“I believe it’s more triumphant, than macabre,” Cyrus mused. “Each of these hold a story just like a book would.”

“Books don’t have freaky dead eyes watching you read them.”

“Perhaps you're reading the wrong books."

Therion kicked off his boots and tugged off his scarf and tunic, moving towards Cyrus to toss them along with the scholar’s cloak. As he closed the distance between them, he hooked an arm around Cyrus’ waist, pulling their bodies together. 

Cyrus smirked and let his hands fall on Therion’s shoulders. “Not too unnerved by the trophies, then?”

“I’ll manage.”

In truth, he was far too frustrated to bother being picky. The ache had been building since they had left Flamesgrace. It was like the first time he and Cyrus had come through the Woodlands, on their way from Noblecourt, with the want burning inside him. Then, it had been the fool’s device holding him back, the Dragonstone fueling his dreams, the fact that he and Cyrus had just met, not to mention the emotional bruises of betrayal he had still been nursing. That seemed like so long ago. Now, he had the two Dragonstones locked safely in a mythril box, and felt closer to Cyrus than he ever had-- it was the betrayal of his own body he was worried about. However, there were four people (and a snow leopard) traveling with them, including a cleric of the church. Privacy was getting difficult to come by. He would take what he could get.

Therion started working at the fastenings of Cyrus’ clothes, the tip of his tongue poking out of the edge of his mouth in concentration.

“This isn’t an inn bed,” Cyrus said. “We’re guests here.”

Therion was undeterred. “So then we won’t make a mess, whatever.” He tugged down the heap of their outer clothing over the rumple of furs. “There. Problem solved.” Cyrus smiled, letting Therion pull the both of them onto the bed, and out of the rest of their clothes.

Therion’s blood was too hot for thought. His hands and his lips touched every part of Cyrus within reach, fueled by the urgent want, and the deep desire to prove his doubts wrong-- that he wasn’t broken by his experiences, that Darius hadn’t won. He shifted, pulling himself up over Cyrus, every place where their skin made contact singing in sensation. Every time he looked down at Cyrus like this, he was struck again by how gorgeous he really was, and it always jarred him a bit into an out-of-body experience, that this was someone who wanted to be with him. 

Cyrus reached up for him, gentled by Therion’s pause. “Are you certain that--” He began, but Therion put his fingers over his mouth to silence him.

“I want to try something.” He traced his hands over Cyrus’ bare chest as he spoke. “You’re gonna just not move.”

“I don’t believe that’s going to be--”

“Shh. Just until I can get through whatever’s fucked up inside my head. And then I think it’ll be okay.” He slid lower on the bed, taking a deep breath. “Or else I’m broken forever. And I might as well become a cleric.”

“You would look dashing in white robes, though.” Cyrus grinned.

Therion’s hand encouraged Cyrus’ desire. “I have a fun story for you later about that.” He wiggled himself down between the scholar’s legs. He was hesitating, and he knew it. He feared how his subconscious might react, the fear it would conjure up, how far it might push Cyrus away. 

Cyrus’ hand came down and took Therion’s. He held it, squeezing it lightly. Therion looked up at him, and saw that look in his eyes that had been hanging there lately. The one that always invited him in. Cyrus guided him forward, and Therion climbed over him to meet his kiss. He wrapped his arms around him, and felt his body lighten. For a moment, he felt like he was floating, but when he came back down, there was Cyrus to catch him. 

Therion moved from his lips to his neck and his chest, feeling the heat rushing to his skin, and Cyrus’ touch ever so lightly on his shoulders. The scholar just couldn’t resist touching him. Cyrus reached for his hand again, holding on to it as Therion made his way down his stomach. Therion held tight. It was an anchor to keep him from blowing away… or sinking too deep. 

Therion brought his lips against Cyrus’ sensitive, straining arousal. He ran his tongue around the head, slowly, hearing the scholar’s heavy exhalation, feeling Cyrus intertwine their fingers. Therion squeezed his hand, and took him into his mouth.

He had worried about it so much. All that worry turned out to be pointless. There was no resurgence of memories, no disconnect where his mind fell into the past and his body reacted on its own. All he thought about was Cyrus. About wanting to be close to him. About wanting to make him feel good. About his hand in his own. He felt his own body reacting as he moved his lips over Cyrus, pushing him in deeper.

He heard Cyrus’ sigh above him, and he glanced up. His free hand was hovering just over his head, holding back from touching his hair. Instead, Cyrus just gripped the other hand he held tighter as Therion's mouth moved.

He felt himself wanting more. He reached down, touching himself, hoping to alleviate some of the yearning. It only accomplished the opposite. He wanted them to be closer, for their bodies to be together, to feel Cyrus inside him, part of him. But he also remembered his reaction last time, the wave of fear that had pulled him under, drowning all desire. Mouth still moving over Cyrus’ length, he reached back to test himself, pressing a finger within to see what happened. All it did was remind him that his own finger was no substitute for what he really wanted.

After a few more motions, Therion pulled his mouth away from Cyrus’ wet arousal. He slid forward to straddle him. The scholar opened his eyes.

“You don't--”

“Don't say that. I know.” Therion cut him off. “I just want it so bad.” He flushed red with these words, and a sly smile crept onto Cyrus’ lips. The scholar squeezed his hand reassuringly, then lifted their hands together so he could kiss the back of Therion's hand.

Therion maneuvered himself, holding his breath as he felt the contact of sensitive parts against each other. He bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and slid himself down onto Cyrus’ cock.

He felt his inhalation, staggered and shallow. He felt his whole body stiffen. He felt Cyrus’ hand around his own. And he felt his exhalation, a deep sigh, and his muscles relaxed to let him feel full, satisfied. He opened his eyes to meet Cyrus’, and leaned forward to kiss him as he started moving his hips. 

\--- --- ---

Upstairs, Primrose smiled and leaned in, wrapping an arm around the huntress. H’aanit met her kiss this time, and encouraged, Prim sank into the feeling. They fell backwards onto the bed, Primrose pulling H’aanit up over her, guiding the huntress’ hands. She knew that H’aanit would never dare go there herself, so she brought her hand up over her breast, beneath her red and gold top. She felt H’aanit’s breath catch in her throat, felt the slight tremble of her body, and pulled her in closer, lips finding her cheek and her neck. 

Primrose took her guiding hand away, testing to see if H’aanit would retreat. When she didn’t, Prim felt the hot rush of excitement and desire, and slid herself out of her skirt and cold-weather leggings, leaving herself bare on the huntress’ fur-covered bed. H’aanit’s hands traced along the curves of her body, emboldened now, while Primrose snuck a hand up the huntress’ hips, pulling up the hem of her dress. This is when H’aanit pulled away.

She burned pink in the muted candlelight, breathing hard as she looked at the dancer lying across her bed. Primrose sat up slightly, still attempting to tug up the gray dress. H’aanit took her hands in her own, shaking her head.

“Thou art so lovely,” she murmured. “I am ashamed for thee to see me in comparison.” She dropped her eyes, to where Primrose’s small, smooth hands were encircled by her own calloused ones. “I am not woman enough to love. I am not man enough to lead.”

Primrose’s heart cracked open at the defeat on the huntress’ face. “H’aanit, I think you’re beautiful,” she said softly, reaching to take her face in her hands. H’aanit let her kiss her, eventually sinking into the sensation herself. “Here…” Primrose said, shifting on the bed. “Come under the blanket. I won’t look.”

H’aanit followed her beneath the furs, the two of them lying in each other’s warmth like they had so many nights before. The difference was this time, Primrose could feel the soft swath of fur around her naked skin, H’aanit’s touch warm and tingling on her bare body. This time, when the dancer tugged at the huntress’ clothes, H’aanit let herself be undressed.

Primrose kept her promise. She didn’t look. But she let her hands trace over every part of H’aanit’s body, feeling the hard strength of the muscles on her arms and shoulders, the soft rolling hills of her breasts, the flat plain of her stomach, the rounded peak of her hip. The huntress shuddered beneath her fingertips, the sensation of the warmth building beneath the soft blankets, the tingle of touch on her body, setting her nerves alight. 

Eventually, Prim’s fingers wandered to the soft grove between H’aanit’s thighs, venturing to brush against the untouched territory there. She felt the huntress tense.

“Is this okay?” Primrose whispered. 

“Aye,” H’aanit breathed, shifting her leg ever so slightly to let Primrose in. The dancer’s touch slid along the sensitive folds, wet with want and newly awakened desire. She kissed H’aanit’s neck as she heard her breath quicken, a tiny gasp caught in her throat. She coaxed the huntress’ legs apart further, H’aanit’s sex blooming beneath her fingers. She was careful to tease the edges first, conscious of how overwhelming the new sensation could be. After a time, she let her middle finger brush lightly against that bud of desire she had been teasing, and felt H’aanit tense and sigh against her ear. Primrose smiled, sinking into a kiss as her fingers played at the huntress’ body.

\--- --- ---

“You okay?” Alfyn asked, crossing to Ophilia. She tucked her shoulders in, avoiding his eyes.

“Yes. I…” she dropped her voice. “I thought the Professor and Primrose were a couple.”

Alfyn looked behind him at the closed door Cyrus and Therion had disappeared behind. “Nah. Though I could see it. They both got a bit of that fancy way of looking and carryin’ themselves. Professor used to teach royalty, so that’s probably where he gets it, but you don’t suppose that Primrose…” He turned back and frowned at the worried expression on Ophilia’s face. “Oh. ‘Cause it’s him and Therion. Is it ‘cause like, the Church is against that kinda thing?”

Ophilia shook her head. “Only some bishops have publically spoken about it, and His Excellency never…” she shook her head. Only the Gods can judge. But I just feel… I’m not used to it. Did you know?”

Alfyn shrugged. “Ain’t no bother to me. Reckon it’s none of my business.”

“And it shouldn’t bother me, but…” Ophilia sighed. “I’ve done all this traveling, and met so many people, and seen so much. But the world still feels so big. It just… it just points that out to me. That I barely know anything.”

Alfyn laughed. “Sometimes I feel the same way. But we’ll get there, right? That’s what’s so great about travelin’ around like this.”

He reached for her gloved hand. She let him take it, but her muscles stayed rigid. She looked at his goofy, overconfident smile, the sparkle of light in his eyes, and felt it. The same feeling that had made her push so close to him that night in Atlasdam, the one that she knew she should be ignoring. That she had been taught to push away, all her life. Her commitment to the Sacred Flame came first, always. He had no possible idea how lost she felt. She pulled her hand away.

“I think I need to pray.”

“Uh, okay.” Alfyn leaned back, scratching the back of his head. “Do… do I need to give ya some privacy?”

“Could you?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll just, uh… I’ll just go for a little walk. Get some fresh air. Always good for ya.”

“It’s dark, though.”

“Oh. I ‘spose." He was too flustered to think straight. He had seen that spark in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, felt his own heart thump heavy within his chest. "Maybe I’ll just go sleep in the other room, then. Not a problem.” He scooped up his bedroll from the floor. 

“Alfyn.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For always being so understanding.”

He flashed her a smile, and went to open the door to Z’aanta’s room.

\--- --- ---

Therion didn’t hear the knock, or the door open, with his heart pounding, the pressure building within him as he moved himself on Cyrus, both of their heavy breaths panting in the heat trapped between them. 

But he did hear Alfyn’s cry of alarm and embarrassment. 

He saw the intruder over his shoulder, and was able to scream out a “What the fuck?!” while scrambling and falling over the far side of the bed. He hit the ground with an angry thump.

Alfyn yelled out apologies, covering his eyes and his burning red face as he tried to blindly find his way back to the front room.

Cyrus, seemingly immune to shame, smoothly yanked a fur blanket up over himself and twisted to see it Therion was alright.

The thief’s head popped up from behind the bed. “Didn’t anyone teach you about knocking?!”

“Aw shucks, I didn’t think--” but Alfyn was already behind the shut door, back pressed against it, looking at Ophilia’s concerned expression.

Therion steamed up at Cyrus. 

“To be fair,” the scholar said, his voice cool, “he did knock, he simply did not wait for an answer.”

“Too many people,” Therion grumbled. “Why are you so calm about this?”

Cyrus just shook his head. “It’s likely more embarrassing for him, if that helps you any.”

Therion just released a stream of curses as he went to check the door, pushing the small bedside table in front of it this time.

\--- --- ---

When H’aanit heard the shouting from downstairs, she was instantly alert, pulling away from Primrose’s touch, reaching for her weapons. The dancer could distinctly hear Therion’s voice.

“Those idiots,” Primrose said, reaching to guide H’aanit’s body back towards her. The huntress pulled away, groping for her dress.

“I shoulde seen if there is trouble,” she said. She pulled the dress over her head with her back to the dancer, then rose-- a little shakily-- to check downstairs.

Primrose sank into the bed, staring up at the beam of the ceiling above her. She set her hand over her own stomach, and exhaled deeply.


	33. Victor's Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to get more strength to fight a Redeye? Better go find a warrior.

The travelers woke the next morning after a night of unsatisfying sleep. Primrose had the impression that H’aanit had been looking for the excuse of the interruption the previous evening, and had feigned sleep upon her return upstairs. 

The huntress had then woken early, hoping to go out and convince the other hunters once more. When Prim came downstairs, she decided not to ask why Alfyn had slept out in the backyard, or why Therion gave him such an irritated look when he came inside. Cyrus had his nose buried in one of the Archbishop’s books, Ophilia reading over his shoulder as they were deep in discussion over something. Prim heard the phrase “delicate nuances of translation” and decided she wasn’t interested. She figured someone should start breakfast, and that may as well be her. She set the tea kettle on to boil.

They had gathered for the meal, with Therion in the middle of an argument over why it was actually more polite to _not_ wait for H’aanit to come back before they started eating, when the huntress returned, disheartened. She sat, and Linde rested her chin consolingly on her mistress’ leg. It seemed that S’warkii’s hunters seemed resolved to ignore the threat of the Redeye. 

“Then we’ll fight it ourselves,” Primrose said. “Forget them.”

“We shalle needen more strength, still.”

“Perhaps we could convince some others to join our cause,” Cyrus suggested. “If we had sufficient incentive.”

“If S’warkii will not be convinced out of love for Z’aanta, what coulde convincen a perfect stranger to fighten?” H’aanit nodded to Alfyn and Ophilia. “Not all are as kind as thee.”

“Mercenaries exist, and can be hired for the right price,” Cyrus said, turning to Therion.

Therion furrowed his brow. “You’re looking at me like I just have a bunch of stolen leaves burning a hole in my pocket. I don’t.” A small smile crept onto his lips. “I have a bunch of rare minerals from Quarrycrest in the bottom of the Dragonstone box. Just get me to the right buyer.”

“Where does one hire a mercenary?” Ophilia asked.

“The strongest fighters in the continent are likely in Victor’s Hollow this time of year,” Primrose said. “It’s nearly time for their famous tournament.”

“That means we can watch them fight and make sure we hire ourselves a winner,” Therion said. “No point wasting cash on someone who’s not gonna cut it.”

“Victor’s Hollow it is, then,” Cyrus said. He looked to Alfyn, who flushed and dropped his gaze to his breakfast. Cyrus didn’t seem to notice. “Where do you need to go for your potion ingredients?”

“I need a feather from a critter called the Ogre Eagle. Supposed to hang out near Orewell, or thereabouts.” Alfyn was clearly torn between his simmering embarrassment from the previous night, and ingrained politeness to look Cyrus in the eye when he spoke to him. He managed by looking at the wall past Cyrus’ left shoulder. “Funniest thing, I feel like I heard about this feather before, but I’ve never used it myself. Can’t recall for the life of me where I heard about it before.”

“Thou needest aide?” H’aanit asked. “If ‘tis a beast you seeken…”

“Aw, naw.” Alfyn waved a hand dismissively. “Y’all got your own things ta fret about. Shouldn’t be too tricky. Phili and I have taken care of plenty o’ critters in our travels.”

Ophilia nodded. “We will get the feather, and then Alfyn says the last ingredient he needs is a kind of herb that grows particularly well in the wetlands outside Saintsbridge. We’ll head there, Alfyn will fix the potion, and send it with some Knights Ardente on a ferry across the central sea to Flamesgrace. That allows us to meet you in the Sunlands.”

“Great plan,” Therion said between bites. Four people was fewer than six, after all. 

“I shalle ready our supplies,” H’aanit said, rising. “Mayhaps seal the windows better this time.” Primrose stood to help her, and Ophilia began clearing breakfast dishes, leaving just the men at the table with a pall of awkwardness hanging over them.

“Forgive my ignorance on the subject,” Cyrus said, shuffling closer to an already uncomfortable Alfyn, “but how does one go about making a potion from a feather? I imagine that’s awfully unpleasant for the patient to ingest.”

“Oh, you boil it,” Alfyn said. 

“How does that help?” Cyrus pried.

Alfyn stared at his calloused hands. “It gets all the curative properties into the water, and then you sorta let that simmer down ‘til all that’s left is like… concentrated. Goes in smooth to whatever you wanna mix it into, then.”

“Ah, so you distill it. Do you find that more potent than, say, steeping it in water? Or what’s that process called by the alchemists… maceration?”

Alfyn’s own talkative nature was working against him. Every time he looked up to meet the scholar’s scrutinizing glare, he flushed pink, thinking of what he had seen the night before, and was forced to look away. That is, until Cyrus asked him the next question.

 _He’s doing it on purpose,_ Therion realized, and hid a smile beneath the shadow of his scarf. Cyrus’ humor was subtle, and he mostly seemed to only do it to amuse himself, not caring if any others realized his joke. He would make comments in a completely serious tone that Therion could only recognize as sarcasm from things Cyrus had mentioned in private. Some of the ways he phrased things were outlandish and ridiculous intentionally-- because it amused him. He would ask questions under the guise of curiosity that sometimes forced the respondent to fall over themselves to clarify, or prompted them to word their answer in such a way that it came out as a pun or a double entendre. Cyrus would never crack, never laugh at his own joke, so the others involved rarely even realized what he had done, or if they did, never imagined it was purposeful. Therion had been noticing these more and more. It had to have been there, at the beginning, but he hadn’t known Cyrus then. Not as well as he did now.

After Alfyn had answered another of Cyrus’ inquiries, the scholar nodded, seemingly satisfied, and Alfyn seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that the line of questioning was over. Cyrus allowed for just the right length of time to lull him into a false sense of security, then reached across the table to just barely touch Afyn’s elbow as he asked yet another mundane question, his face a mask of earnest curiosity. Alfyn nearly choked on his tea. 

Therion burst out laughing, and Cyrus’ eyes slid over to him, a mischievous sparkle there for only Therion to see. He had the slightest hint of a smirk, pleased to share the joke.

\--- --- ---

The group parted ways at the crossroads on the West S’warkii Trail, Ophilia and Alfyn headed south to the Cliftlands, the rest venturing north to Victor’s Hollow. They were not alone on the path. They found carriages, horses, and travelers on foot aplenty on the road, headed up for the annual tournament held in the Woodlands’ largest city. They knew they were approaching the city when the hawking merchants grew thick around the roadsides, calling out their souvenirs, festival food, and ‘rare’ treasures. H’aanit grew visibly wary around crowds. Since it was the Woodlands, Linde would normally be tolerated, even welcomed-- but the crush of tourists made her nervous for her companion’s safety. There would always be those who did not trust the snow leopard, and even more who saw her as a novelty or a pet, and would swarm her asking to touch her or if she knew any tricks. Linde was just as uncomfortable around strangers as her mistress, and did not have to be told twice when H’aanit instructed her to take to the wild.

The city itself was thick with people. Guards tried to keep the crowds flowing, but impromptu duels and trainers talking up their fighters kept people swirling around the spectacle and blocking the pathways through the main streets. Therion was able to make knowing eye contact with a few would-be pickpockets, warning them silently that his group was not the easy mark they were looking for, but one young man was bolder than the others. Pretending to be a bewildered tourist, he bumped into Cyrus, plying the oldest trick in the thief’s playbook. Therion grabbed his shoulder and spun him around as he tried to hasten off in the middle of Cyrus’ oblivious apology. Therion yanked him close, twisting his arm behind his back, and making sure the other thief caught the flash of his dagger beneath the edge of his tunic. 

“Give it back,” Therion said quietly, recognizing well the fear of capture on the young man’s face. He had purposefully positioned them so no one else could see what was going on behind their backs.

“I didn’t--” the young thief, face dotted in pimples started. He caught H’aanit’s eye as she turned to see the interruption, hand reaching for her axe handle.

“Don’t play that game, man,” Therion said. “Just give it back and the watch won’t know a thing.”

The young thief suddenly paled. “Please, no. I can’t. I mean… the lions! Here!” He fumbled in his cloak, retrieving Cyrus’ coin purse and hurriedly thrusting it out before him. The sudden panic seemed more intense than Therion would have counted on. Perhaps the thief was just new to the trade… or there was more going on here. He tightened his grip on the other thief’s arm. 

“We’ll take anything else you’ve gotten today, too,” he said cooly. 

“Come on, I gave it back!”

“Prim, you wanna go get that guardsman over there?” Therion nodded to her. “No need to make a scene.” The guard in question was a burly, angry looking fellow, thick black straps holding on his heavy armor.

“No, please,” the young thief said. “I can’t… Maximus…” He reached for his pockets and pulled out several more purses, an ornate flask, and a gold bracelet. Therion hid the flashier ones under his cloak quickly, letting Cyrus hold the others.

“All of it,” Therion said. 

“That’s it, I swear!” The young man’s eyes jolted between Therion and the guard in the distance. “Come on, man!”

Therion released his arm, and the thief ran off into the crowd. H’aanit relaxed, taking her hand off her axe.

“He seemed… excessively concerned.” Cyrus said. 

“Yeah, something’s up.” Therion searched around to see if anyone else had become particularly interested in the confrontation. Most were distracted by a few fighters blustering up their own fame a few yards off. “I’m probably gonna keep my hands to myself until we figure out what he’s so scared of. Gotta be something more than just losing your take and getting tossed out of town.”

“I doth not like his mention of lions,” H’aanit said, frowning.

\--- --- ---

The travelers waded through the thick crowds, finally settling on a high walkway overlook where at least they could breathe. H’aanit was clearly on edge, packed in on all sides by people. She leaned out over the stone wall at the edge of the overlook, despairing at the parade of would-be champions drumming up publicity on the road to the arena. The others leaned against the wall alongside her.

“Why do they even need to advertise?” Primrose asked. “Isn’t everyone here to watch the tournament, anyway? Do they make more money or something?”

“The wagers are an important part of the attraction,” Cyrus said. “People love the spectacle of violence, to be sure, but are also drawn by potential fortunes to be made by selecting the right fighter.”

“Do the fighters get money if they win?” Prim asked.

“Only if they had any to wager to begin with,” Cyrus shurgged. “But they do get something better. Fame. Glory. Honor and renown. The more people who see their fight, the more who can tell of their might.”

“I’d rather have the money,” Therion said.

H’aanit slumped, turning away from the crowd below them. “How doth we convincen one of these fighters to helpen us slay the beast, if the hunters from mine village will not?”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” Primrose said, a comforting hand on her forearm.

“You lot aren’t looking to bet, are you?” A woman with a no-nonsense attitude about her stood behind them, arms crossed,a red ribbon bright in her hair. 

“We seeken to enlist the aide of a warrior,” H’aanit said, standing upright. “Though I was not expecting such a large crowd.”

“Never been to the tournament before, then?” The woman laughed. She stuck out her hand. “Name’s Cecily. I’m a trainer. A trainer without a fighter, as it stands. I had a good one, but through some underhanded tricks, I lost him. If you bunch want to lend a hand at getting him free from the bastards who stole him, I’d be willing to help you out with your troubles. You got money?”

Therion frowned. “That’s our business.” 

Cecily laughed. “Love that edge, kid. But if you all got the coin, I’ve got the opportunity. I’ve been trying to earn enough myself, but… let’s just say the Gods have not been smiling lately.”

H’aanit narrowed her eyes at the trainer. “Aye, we can payen for a fighter. But...” she trailed off, discouraged from the last time she had told the tale.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “You see, there’s this beast. A demonic entity hell-bent on--”

Therion decided he didn’t have enough patience for this, and stepped in front of Cyrus. “This fighter needs to come with us. We can’t leave him here with you.”

“Ah, you misunderstand me,” Cecily said. “I feel like it’s because of me that he’s trapped in the situation he’s in, though he’s too honorable to blame me for it. I’m certain that were you to help me free him from the bonds that now hold him, he’d consider himself in your debt. He is a Knight of the old order-- not the type of man to dismiss a debt lightly. Part of that is what’s keeping him stuck where he is. I just want to get him out of it.”

H’aanit considered. “What if he hath not the strength we needen?”

Cecily laughed again. “Don’t you worry about that. I have not seen the equal of his strength in all my years of training fighters. Come to the arena after dark. There are pit fights tonight. You will see his might, and we’ll talk to his new trainer about money.”

\--- --- ---

The formal duels, the tournaments, the contests lauded about the continent, and the ones everyone said they were coming to view, were held in the daytime in the coliseum. Though blood was often spilled in these, rarely were there any deaths-- honorable fighters would allow their opponents to yield, and apothecaries were standing by to treat injuries. These fights were more about skill than brute strength. At night, however, the arena was used for far different battles. These were brutal, bloody, fought mainly by the unwilling. Some nights, the combatants were dogs or wolves, bred to be vicious and bloodthirsty, battered into anger, baited to destroy each other. Some nights, the combatants were men, given much the same treatment. They were typically criminals, used in these fights as an alternative to prison or execution-- though often the result was the same-- with the promise of freedom dangling at the end of enough victories. 

The feeling in the air was far different. In the day time, people milled about the streets with music playing from every corner, merchants hawking their wares, people generally enjoying themselves. After nightfall, the streets cleared somewhat, leaving only those with more insidious appetites for violence. There were other draws, too-- though the authorities regulated bets in the daytime, there was little interference with how much money could be made or lost for the pit fights. 

“There’s fewer people, at least,” Primrose offered, noting the tell-tale postures of women lounging on street corners, making eyes at the men who passed by.

“I doth not like it any better,” H’aanit complained. 

“It gives one the same sense as that Black Market in Wellspring,” Cyrus muttered. “I didn’t much care for that place, either.”

“We’ll be fine,” Therion said. “Just keep your nose in your own business and your mouth shut until you need to open it.”

The smartly-dressed arena guards had been replaced by some brutish looking men bulging out of leather armor, all muscles and tattoos and piercings. They held long spears to block the entryway, only letting people enter after giving them a hard, judgemental glance up and down. The travelers approached to stop in front of the crossed spears, the guard on the right looking hard over Primrose and H’aanit. The dancer gave him a saucy smile and a wink, and the guard lifted his spear to let them pass. He then waved Therion through without so much as a second thought, but when Cyrus tried to follow, the spear dropped down between them. Cyrus looked up at the guard questioningly.

“Entry’s five hundred leaves,” he grunted. He had a ring pierced through his nose like a bull would.

“You didn’t charge them,” Cyrus said, crossing his arms.

“Five hundred,” the guard repeated. Therion turned, Primrose and H’aanit lingering a bit up the path.

“Hey, man,” Therion said. “He’s with me. It’s fine.”

The guard looked him over. “A thousand, then.” Therion’s face fell.

Sighing, Cyrus reached for his coin pouch. Therion shook his head. “Don’t pay it. This is extortion.”

The guard laughed. “You all must not be from around here.”

“They’re not,” a commanding female voice rang out from further in the line. Cecily stomped forward. “They’re my guests.”

The guard’s smile dropped. “They still gotta pay the entry fee, Miss Cecily.”

Cecily narrowed her eyes, and dropped her voice to a hiss. “We both know that coin is going right into your pocket. So you wanna let my guests inside, or do you want me to let Maximus know about the scam you’re pulling out here, and the money you’re keeping from him?”

The guard swallowed hard, then lifted his spear. “Go on then.”

Cecily stared him down as she marched past. “Moron,” she grumbled. Cyrus gave the guard a similar, but silent look as he followed her.

The inside of the arena buzzed in low tones. Braziers burned brightly around the stands and around the central pit, burnished copper plates angled to reflect as much of the fire as possible down to the arena. Groups of spectators-- some concealed under cloaks and hoods, others brazenly open-- sat clustered in the stands, while bookies with ledgers bounced between them relaying odds and taking bets. In the pit below, fighters were warming up, a few having their strengths extolled by their trainers to the gathering crowds. Whereas the daytime fighters were clad in gleaming armor and outfitted with expensive weapons, often having some theme or gimmick their hype men could use to attract a crowd, these fighters looked more or less the same-- clad in the bare minimum of leather armor, most shirtless, just covered in grime, blood, and sweat. There seemed to be several distinct groups of fighters, each with something different denoting their affiliation-- a shaved head, a tattoo, a piercing, a brand-- something far cruder than the sigils and banners used in a knight’s heraldry. As for the individual fighters themselves, very little seemed to distinguish them from others in their group.

“So the trainers for these fights,” Cecily explained, “they’re more owners than trainers. They buy out criminals’ sentences, force ‘em to fight for ‘em, against the other owners’ fighters. They get ‘em by promising if they have enough wins they can get their freedom. ‘Course, that never seems to actually happen. They always end up dead, or twisted as bad as the owners. No one seems to care if a bunch of murders, rapists, and thieves end up slaughtering each other, right?”

Therion attempted to shove his hands further into his pockets.

“So this fighter you’re trying to get us to help,” Cyrus said, “is guilty of some crime?”

Cecily sighed. “It wasn’t him. His only crime was being sponsored by me, and defeating the wrong man to qualify for the tournament. Like I said, I’m the one who got him into this mess, so I want to help get him free of it.”

She stopped them in an area away from the other clumps of spectators, for privacy. A bookie fluttered over to them, rattling off odds even before he was within earshot. Cecily shooed him away like an insect.

“I’m scouting, not betting,” she growled at him. After he was gone, she muttered to the travelers, “Don’t bet your money here. It all goes to those pig-headed owners.” She motioned to a high box across the arena. “See that guy with the mustache up there? That’s the one that bought out my guy. Maximus. He’s the one you’re gonna have to talk to, but I can help you with that.”

Up in the box, a broad man with a long, bushy mustache loomed, watching the arena fill up with spectators and gamblers. He didn’t look particularly fearsome, through he was broad shouldered, as if he may have been a warrior himself at some point. His face was dotted with silver jewelry-- a ring in his eyebrow, his lip, and several in each ear. 

“His fighters are down there,” Cecily pointed, and the mess of fighters she indicated all had similar piercings. Some had them in their noses, like the guard at the gate, others in their ears, but all were bare-chested to show the rings in their nipples. “My guy’s not out yet. He’s too good for the warm-up fights, so they’ll bring him out later.”

As the arena filled up, the opening entertainment began. There were a few feats of strength like at the daytime games-- men who could lift heavy weights, sword-jugglers, fire-swallowers, and the like. There were some opening fights, mostly novelty and seemingly scripted-- no blood was shed at these. The tone changed once the real fights began. The first two combatants were a man whose body was completely hairless and another with an angry, barely-healed brand on his upper arm. The fighters weren’t announced by name. Rather, the names of their owners were given, along with a nickname-- these two were Bertrand’s Lightning and Goliath’s Mace. Gamblers betting on this fight were on their feet, shouting insults at the one they hoped would lose. The two fighters paced around their half of the arena like caged tigers. They had no weapons, yet, but as Cecily explained, after the two had grappled for a while, weapons of increasing lethality would be tossed down to each. More money was to be made if a fighter could disable his opponent with his bare hands, less for the staves and clubs, and even less for the spears and swords. A bell sounded, and the fighters lunged for each other’s throats amid the cheers of the crowd.

Cyrus tried to view it as a study in anthropology. He was there to observe, not to judge, this display of a culture very foreign to what he was accustomed to. Still, the loaded term ‘barbaric’ hovered around the edges of his consciousness. The spectacle around two men beating each other senseless with their fists was a far cry from a spirited debate in the libraries of Atlasdam. Even magic-based combat was relatively clean. One might suffer burns or frostbite, but there wasn’t that squelching sound of fist on flesh, there wasn’t the slow dribble of blood into the sands of the arena, there wasn’t that cheer when one fighter’s punch knocked a few teeth free from his opponent’s mouth, sending them flying across the pit. He tried to look away, but the sounds were half as bad on their own. H’aanit watched passively, having seen her share of struggles in the wild between predators-- these two animals just happened to be human. Primrose frowned at the sight, more put off by the crowd’s reactions than the fight itself. Therion couldn’t help but wonder what offense the men had committed to earn such a punishment. He understood now the fear of the thief he had caught earlier.

Enough time had passed for the blunt weapons to be thrown down, and as the hairless fighter scrambled for a wooden pole, the other had snatched up a thickly knotted club. The bald man didn’t even see it coming. His skull collapsed, caving in to resemble a bloody cereal bowl. The crowd cheered, some for the blood, some for the spectacle, and some for the money they had just made. While the branded fighter, now missing several teeth, raised his arms in victory, others came to cart the body away.

“They don’t always kill them,” Cecily said quietly. “But there’s more money in it if they do.” 

A few more fights took place, only a few ending with the demise of the loser. Others begged for quarter, while others merely lay unconscious in the sand while their opponent celebrated victory. One man took a dive at the first blow, and the crowd screamed ‘coward’ at him until the judges threw a spear down to his opponent. He stood to resume the fight, but was not given a weapon himself. The ending to that one was inevitable. The bookies scattered around announced each fight, as well as the odds, when each fighter was brought in. When the closest one called out “Maximus’ Bull!” Cecily straightened in her seat.

“That’s him, he’s coming out now,” she said.

“What if he loses?” Primrose asked.

Cecily shook her head. “He doesn’t. The other trainers don’t even send their best against him anymore, because they don’t want to lose them, and he doesn’t fight flashy enough. I think that’s why we can get Maximus to sell him. There, he’s there.”

Below in the arena, amid cheers from fans of the fight, strode a man who still walked with the confident posture of a knight. His thick black hair was pulled into a topknot, and a haphazardly shaved beard shadowed his jaw. His armor was practically nonexistent-- a piece of black leather for modesty more than protection, with a few black straps around thick thighs and biceps as ornamentation. Like all of Maximus’ fighters, two rings gleamed on his chest, decorating the heavy pectoral muscles. While the other fighters had come out either grinning at the praise of the crowd or growling menacingly at their opponent, this one just looked tired, disappointed by the task ahead of him.

“The guy is jacked,” Therion muttered to Primrose beside him. “His neck’s bigger than your waist.”

Cecily smiled with pride. “The Unbending Blade of Hornburg himself, Olberic Eisenberg.”

Cyrus burst out laughing. Cecily shot him a dirty look.

“Apologies, apologies,” Cyrus said, recovering. “If that’s what the man wants to call himself, I suppose he’s allowed a stage name, or some such.”

“He told me that was his true name,” Cecily frowned. “He has been formally trained as a knight. His skill with the blade is--”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he was a knight. There are hundreds of former knights, having fought for dozens of different kings and pretenders. He very well could have fought at Hornburg. Thousands did. But he’s not Eisenberg. The Unbending Blade has been dead for nearly ten years. That he’s standing in a fighting pit wrestling for sport is simply preposterous.” 

Cecily was unimpressed. Primrose tried to placate her by turning to Cyrus. “Well, maybe--”

Cyrus interrupted her. “I _literally_ wrote the book on the war in which he rose to glory and subsequently met his end. I spent years interviewing survivors and witnesses and compiling first-hand accounts. The man is dead, and he,” he motioned down to the pit, “is using his name. Though I can’t deny that I’m curious to discover why.”

Below, the fighters squared off. It was fairly clear to anyone watching that Olberic-- The Bull-- whoever he was-- was toying with his opponent. He would dodge some lunges, others he would meet and bring down in a wrestling hold, letting his foe squirm free only after a time. Once the weapons were thrown down, he quickly snatched up a long pole, using it skilfully to smack the club from his opponent's hand and bring him swiftly to his knees. The enemy lunged, but Olberic planted a foot in the center of his chest, pinning him to the ground. Amid the demands of the crowd to finish him, Olberic allowed his foe to yield, granting him mercy. The crowd seemed disappointed.

“He seemeth to know how to fighten,” H’aanit said. “But we needen to know if he wille helpen us in our fight. How canst we speaken to him?”

“That might be trickier,” Cecily said. “Maximus keeps them tightly in line. When they’re not fighting, they’re in the barracks. The only ones who get to go in are the girls they bring in to reward the winners.” Cecily grimaced with distaste. “If we could find one of them to pass a message…”

“Or I could just go in as one of the girls,” Primrose offered. Cecily and H’aanit frowned at her. Prim ignored this. “Do you think you could get me to the right people to get me in?”

Cecily wavered. “I suppose, but…”

“How do you know that he’ll pick you, or whatever?” Therion asked.

Prim gave him a patronizing smile. “Honey, the men only think they choose me. I’m the one who chooses them.” She turned to Cecily. “If you can get me in with those girls, I can talk to him and make sure he’s in on the plan. That leaves the rest of you to do the negotiating with the owner.”

\--- --- ---

Primrose, back in her dancer’s outfit, walked in with the rest of the girls hired by Maximus that night. She wore a high ponytail adorned with a wide red ribbon-- Cecily’s trademark-- in hopes that Olberic would recognize it and trust her word. The other girls seemed to know each other vaguely, but this wasn’t like Sunshade, where they were all owned by a single Master. They seemed to be in this by choice.

The fighters were all barely dressed in leather and covered in sweat, blood, and sand from their contests. There were only a handful of them-- only the winners-- standing around carousing, laughing, congratulating each other on victory and survival. When they noticed the entrance of the girls, there was the usual posturing, whistles, catcalls, and lewd comments. Primrose angled herself reflexively to show off her best assets, locking eyes deliberately with Olberic, and ignoring the prodding gazes of the others.

Up close, he looked forlorn and disinterested. He stood towards the back of the group, not engaging in any of their off-color humor. He had the bearing of a knight beneath the shadow of a broken man.

Another girl, buried under a thick layer of makeup, noticed Primrose’s stare. “Don’t bother with him, hun,” she whispered. “He never wants none of us. Thinks he’s too good or something.”

“Pick yer whores, assholes,” the nose-ringed guard who had led them in barked. “We pay ‘em by the hour.”

The fighters, laughing and joking, moved forward to grab the waists or rears of whatever girl they had been eyeing-- or just whichever one was closer. Primrose remained immobile, her gaze not wavering from the fine stubble on Olberic’s defined jaw. He finally seemed to notice her stare, and she smiled and fluffed her hair, sure to draw attention to Cecily’s ribbon. He frowned at her.

“Ye wanna fuck tonight?” one of the fighters jabbed Olberic in the side, leering, “or ye just go back to yer room and jack off thinkin’ about how Godsdamned noble you are?” 

Another laughed. “Nah, he only likes them ugly girls. Prolly reminds him of his ma.”

The others scattered, girls under their arms, one hoisting his over a burly shoulder, but Olberic still hadn’t moved or spoken. He stared at Primrose with a concerned frown.

“Ya want her or not?” The guard spat. He leered at Prim. “Ya don’t want her, I might take a go at her meself.”

Olberic grunted and nodded. “Come, then, woman,” he said, and turned down the corridor without waiting for acknowledgement. The guard cursed as Primrose followed down the dingy hall. He stopped in front of one of the nondescript doors, and held it open for her. She flashed him a sultry smile, but it didn’t seem to affect his expression at all. She ran a hand across his broad chest as she slid past him into the room, again to no response.

The cramped interior was little more than a cell, with a bed, a chair, a table, a wash basin, and a small cabinet for personal possessions. Primrose spun and gracefully planted herself on the bed, crossing her legs sensually. Olberic walked past, barely acknowledging her. Instead, he went to the cabinet and pulled out a chipped wooden cup and a corked, opaque bottle. He opened it to pour out a red liquid into the cup.

“I know it is custom to offer guests a drink, but I fear this is all I have to give. I have forsworn alcohol since the incident.” He handed the cup to Primrose. She took it, and sniffed it.

“Pomegranate juice,” she said slowly.

“As I said, it is all I have.” Olberic tilted the bottle to drink, lips not making contact with the rim. Primrose drank as well, eyeing him. “Do you have a name?”

“Primrose,” she said. “Come have a seat.” She patted the bed near her.

“I’ll stand,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice your ribbon.”

Primrose brushed her fingers over the ornament in her hair. “Is it safe to speak freely?”

Olberic nodded. “In quiet tones. They’ll be expecting us to be otherwise occupied. What word from Cecily?”

Primrose explained the situation as succinctly as she could, telling him only what she felt he needed to know. She told him what Cecily had shared about his true identity, and how she had suspected that he would be willing to lend his aid if he were free from Maximus’ control. Olberic just listened, nodding occasionally, expressionless. After she finished, he considered, then nodded with finality.

“If you and your group were indeed able to pay off Maximus to release me, I would certainly owe that debt to you. And if helping in a fight against this cursed scourge would repay that kindness, then you have my word that I would do so. I am a man who keeps his oaths. Though I worry that the sum of my debt may be too great.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” Primrose said. “We have ways of acquiring the leaves. And if we need more, Cecily knows the fighters well enough that we can use the tournament to multiply what we have.”

Olberic nodded. “I must admit, it does sound too good to be true. After all my time here, a way out…”

“How long have you been here?” Primrose asked.

“I arrived in Victor’s Hollow just prior to the tournament last year.” Olberic took her empty cup from her, replacing it and his drained juice bottle back in his cabinet. “Then I shortly found myself here, unable to leave.”

“You spoke of an incident,” Prim said. “I trust Cecily’s judgement, but I feel we have a right to know… what happened?”

Olberic let out a deep sigh, and settled his thick body on the end of the bed. It bent slightly under his bulk. He left a good amount of space between them. “They’ll expect you to be in here a while, and I lack any other form of entertainment. I may as well share my sordid tale.”

_I was a soldier. A knight. A warrior. But the day came when I lost my king, whom I was sworn to protect, my kingdom in which I lived, and my closest friend, whom I thought I could trust. All in one fell swoop. I retreated. I abandoned the fallen kingdom, my title, my legacy, and I took up residence in a slow, quiet farming village in the Highlands. Would that I had died there, smothered in obscurity, if not for a band of marauders taking hostage of a boy I had instructed in the art of swordplay. In rescuing my squire, the leader of the criminals let slip the name of my former comrade, the one who had betrayed our king, his oaths… and I suppose, me. I came to this place in search of information on his whereabouts, hearing that a competitor in the tournament, by the name of Gustav, the Black Knight, had knowledge of him. I arrived and met Cecily, and she agreed to sponsor me in the tournament, granting me a chance to speak with this Gustav. Her plan seemed sound, so I followed her instruction._

_The competitor’s slots for the tournament had already been filled. Therefore, the only way for me to enter would be to displace one of these fighters. I challenged a man named Victorino, the Buccaneer's Bane, for the honor. I defeated him handily, disarming and subduing him with nary a drop of blood spilled. He was not my enemy, you see. However, he did not accept his defeat with honor, though I did not know this at the time._

_This Victorino, he had a familiar association with the keeper of these barracks that you have seen in the arena. He goes by the name Maximus, through I doubt that be his true name. He-- or his lackeys, who could later inform him-- had seen the fight, and had seen my strength. When Victorino asked for his aid, he was more than happy to not only lend a hand to his friend’s revenge, but also profit himself by it._

_Cecily and Ned took me out for drinks that night in the tavern, to celebrate my gaining entry into the tournament, upon which Cecily had placed high hopes. She had wagered a fair sum on my victory. We were well into our cups when a cloaked man offered to buy the next round of drinks, and we did not refuse. Little did I know that my mug was spiked with a foul herb that befuddles the senses, makes one see and hear what is not there. I was suddenly transported back in time, back to the battlefield, surrounded by enemies, smelling the smoke and steel and blood. I heard the account later, for I was not myself while it occurred. I apparently issued a bellowing war cry, and flipped the tavern table before me. Some came at me to calm me, but I saw them as enemies, not innocents. I drew my sword, prepared to fight for survival, as I had so many times before, cutting down any who stood against me._

_I must remind you, I had no sense of where I was. In my mind, the tavern was a battlefield. It seemed so real, pulled right from my memories. It was fortunate that Ned was able to tackle me from behind, Cecily wrest the sword from my grasp, before I could do more damage than I had done. The watch arrived, and they were able to bind me, haul me to prison while I sweated out the remains of the drug, convinced I was now a prisoner of war, sealed in an enemy camp. It was only once I awoke the next morning that I realized what had happened._

_Cecily came to me first to explain. She had recognized the effects of the herb. Not a single glass remained whole in the entire tavern. A dozen people were nursing injuries I had inflicted. Three people were dead. I… I cannot express in words my remorse, my wish to make right what I had done. One of the three was the man in the cloak, later identified as a man owned by Maximus. He was merely bargaining for his own freedom in carrying out his master’s orders._

_I was ready to meet the headsman’s axe, to face the consequences of my crimes. But that’s not how it works, here. In Victor’s Hollow, the criminals belong to Maximus, or the other owners. I knew none of this, when Maximus first came to me in that cell and told me I was to follow him. I was so wracked with guilt over what I had done, I was not in a position to argue. He had his men lead me from the cell to these barracks, down to the training room down below. They call it a training room, but I soon learned it bears a second name, as well-- the breaking room. You did not see those who lost their fights but yet survived up in the antechamber, because that is where these men are now._

_When I first ventured down, there was a large basin and a few pails of water, and Maximus instructed me to remove my clothes for a washing. This didn’t seem too out of place, as I was covered in sweat and ale from the tavern, and general grime from spending the night in the prison, so I did so. There wasn’t enough water for a good soaking, so I figured a shower by pouring the water over me was going to have to suffice. I knew Maximus was sizing me up as he watched me, judging the strength of my body, assessing how I would benefit him as a fighter. This was not where my mind was. I was awash with guilt and shame from my actions in the tavern. I didn’t see the blows coming._

_As I poured the water over my head, I felt a pole smack the back of my knees, forcing me to buckle forward. Suddenly, they were upon me, a group from the shadows, wrestling my arms behind my back, my face to the ground. As I tried to resist, I was met with kicks to the ribs, the legs, the back. Finally, all I could do was yell out my frustration as the group of them successfully bound my wrists and ankles._

_Maximus stood over me, bullwhip in hand, sneer on his face. He told me that as he had paid compensation to the families of the two others who fell by my hand, that sum became the value of my life. He had added half again to the amount to account for his own man he had lost, and explained that I could could earn my freedom by repaying him this debt. To do this, I would fight for him. Every victory I acquired would shave off a small amount of that I owed. But until then, I belonged to him. I argued with him, only to feel the searing lash of the whip against my skin. It felt like the cut of a blade, and I could feel the blood spring from the new wound. It took two more before I had sense enough to shut my mouth. The scars are still there, mixed in with those from battles long past._

_Seeing that he had won, Maximus laughed, and ordered his men to bring me to the bench. They lay me on my back, fixing straps at my waist and neck, while they poured the rest of the cold water over me. It was a step in his regimen of dehumanization-- imagine how I felt, immobilized, naked, bleeding, and mocked. The more sadistic of his underlings concentrated their pails of water over my face, leaving me sputtering and coughing for air. I now know what drowning feels like, for hours on end. All Maximus said was, “Remember this. Remember how this feels. This is what will happen again if you disobey orders.”_

_I understood. I told him as much, choked out the words, and he raised a hand for his lackeys to stop. I had gone from knight, to farmer, to slave._

_(This much I told the dancer woman who had come to me. But there was more, that I did not relate to her. After I had admitted my servitude, I relaxed, thinking this would be the end of it. But instead, Maximus waved a hand for something to be brought out to him. I was overwhelmed with dread, though I knew not what he intended. One of this men lifted something small and metal, and held it where I could see it-- a thin needle, glinting in the torchlight. I tensed. Exposed, tied on the bench, threatened, beaten, and surrounded, there was little I could do. He pinched my left nipple, the one closest to him, while I stared at him, wide-eyed. Without hesitation, he pierced the needle through, sending a storm of pain though sensitive nerves. I may have cried out. I don’t rightly remember. I do remember his laugh as he removed the needle to twist the ring in its place._

_He leaned over me to do the other side, which I seem to remember hurting less than the first-- perhaps I knew what to except, or perhaps my body was numbing itself in anticipation. In any event, I gritted my teeth and endured the second piercing. He secured the ring, and I seem to remember relaxing, thinking he was finished. He was not. Instead, he moved his ministrations further down my body._

_The way in which I was positioned on my back, I could not see what he was doing over the rise of my chest. But I could feel it. He took hold of my privates, squeezing in such a harsh way that it would be difficult for any man’s eyes not to water. He still held the needle in his hand. I was too proud to beg him not to do what he was about to do, but I know now it would not have made the slightest bit of difference. He seized my member in his hand, warned me with a laugh not to move, inserted the needle though the hole in the center, and pressed downwards, piercing the most sensitive place at the base._

_I know I cried out, then. I could take pain. I could withstand a fight. I have suffered many wounds on the battlefield. But to injure a man like that is shameful. Dishonorable._

_Maximus inserted a ring there, too. I learned later that all of the fighters he owns have similar ornaments, that can only be removed once they are free of their debt. Necessarily, most still wear them. I bore witness to how he uses these, as well, not just as markers of his ownership and tools of humiliation, but of punishment. Those who disobey his orders, or perform poorly in their matches, are subjected to pain. When a fighter is punished, any Maximus feels need a reminder-- or in my case, an initial demonstration-- are forced to observe. Men are placed in stress positions, anchored at these points until they are screaming in pain. Weights are attached to these points at sensitive nerves until a man is pleading for forgiveness. Chastity is imposed on those for whom that serves as a punishment, by attaching further restraints to the lower piercing. Upon learning this information, I understood exactly which role he had played as a soldier-- that of enforcer, interrogator, torturer. A soldier with no honor._

_It was difficult to watch these men suffer. I have seen my share of suffering-- men with grievous wounds from battle, begging for the release of death. Men with sicknesses and diseases and infections, while the apothecaries and clerics are spread too thin, or coming too late. Men bearing the loss of friends, brothers, fathers, sons. That was all part of the inevitable cost of war, not inflicted on the whim of a cruel master. I took care not to consider the others as my comrades, however, as so many are turned cruel and blackhearted, hoping to gain Maximus’ favor, to have their debts reduced, to join his privileged lackeys who dole out the punishments, rather than endure them. I am aware Maximus resents me for it, though I am able to win his fights, and follow his rules, so he does little against me. I have seen the effects of disobeying his will._

_I did not share this part with the dancer. Though I have fallen so far below my station, I reserve some shred of dignity. Though I was moved to share another tale. I’m not sure why-- perhaps the method in which she had found me had prompted it. But I related more to her that night.)_

_We-- Maximus’ fighters-- are rewarded for good behavior: more food, sometimes time to read or play cards, alcohol or sweets. Of course, Maximus charges for all of those things, adds the total to the debt. So I have abstained. Yet the other “reward,” is women. Those who are paid to be here, I typically ignore. Though many have not come here by choice, but as punishment in Maximus’ twisted sense of justice._

_Not all criminals are male, able to be used as fighters. These women are sometimes sold off as servants or workers, their wages going back to Maximus instead of into their own pockets, but those who are younger or prettier are more unfortunate. He often brings these women to the barracks for a time before selling them to one of those traders who deal in sin and flesh. I saw one such girl brought in, a thief caught in the marketplace. I did not know her age, but the youth on her terrified features was heartbreaking. Maximus brought her in, casting her to the ground before us as we assembled, and planned to auction her off to the highest bidder. I knew many of the others would do exactly as he wished, and punish her by violating her. I could not reason with them, I had not the heart to make a stand for her virtue, knowing the likely outcome would be the punishment of both of us. So I bid for her. It added nearly ten thousand leaves to my debt, but it was worth it. A pair of lackeys shoved her to my room, asked me first if I wanted them to tie her down, then asked if they could watch. The fear in her eyes was something I shall never forget. I told them no to both questions, shut the door on them, and untied her hands as she trembled with terror. Then I offered her some pomegranate juice, and told her I was not going to touch her, but that she needed to stay for a decent amount of time to make them believe that I was doing what they wished. She cried and thanked me, and just left me to wonder what kind of world this was where that much gratitude is warranted for simply refusing to hurt another._

_I couldn’t do this with all of them. Some were given away to those Maximus favored, without the bidding process. But I saved however many I could, though it has added to my debt. I suppose it helps atone for the mistake I made in taking that drink, though I grow further from my freedom, further from finding the purpose for which I left Cobbleston in the first place._

Olberic took a deep breath after this, swirling the contents of his juice bottle. “I apologize for being long-winded. As I have said, I cannot trust the others. I have not had many people to talk to.”

Primrose sat transfixed. Everytime he had said the name Maximus, her brain heard the name Helganish. When he had described the scared girl who he had purchased, she saw Yusufa. When he had spoken of his former station, she saw her family’s home in Noblecourt, heard her father’s voice. She didn’t need to confer with the rest of the group. She had made the decision for them.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” she said. “As long as you’ll help us in our fight against the Redeye.”

“If you were to secure my freedom,” Olberic said. “I should pay whatever price you shall ask. No doubt a debt to you, whom Cecily trusts, is far preferable to being owned by Maximus.”

“Once the beast is dead, you can do whatever you want. Go find out about your friend, go back to your farmtown, whatever. But the fight won’t be easy.”

“No fight worth winning ever is,” he said.

Prim smiled softly. He was handsome, she thought. Rugged, but without that harsh edge in his speech and manners that many rough men often had. She leaned in, hand brushing across his chest, lips lightly tasting the salty skin of his neck.

He cleared his throat, loudly, and gently pushed her shoulders away. 

“There is no need,” he said. “You will be paid regardless.”

Primrose sat back, suddenly aware of herself. Coming in with the other girls had put her right back in that familiar mindset-- she had fallen back into that life she had lived before in Sunshade, without even realizing it. Even though she spoke of the curse and H’aanit and Cecily, her mind and body were still geared to her former position, a role she had spent so long playing. She realized that she had volunteered to come to these barracks _expecting_ to perform the work of her former life. And somehow, inexplicably, she was disappointed that she wouldn't need to. She understood that Olberic saw her as a whore, and likely thought he was doing her a favor by refusing her-- but for some reason, it felt like rejection. It felt like Cyrus’ gentlemanly avoidance of looking at her body below her neck, even though she knew he did that-- pointedly-- for Therion’s benefit. It felt like H’aanit turning away, telling her that the attentions were too much, that she wasn’t ready. On the surface, she knew the others’ motivations for their actions, but underneath, it just made her feel… unwanted.

Primrose sighed, and reached into the pocket sewn into the lining of her skirt. She pulled out small square of folded paper, and opened it. “Then I guess Cyrus has some questions for you.”

Olberic frowned. “Who is Cyrus?”

“He’s part of our group. He’s a history professor, and he thinks you can’t possibly be who you say you are, because _of course_ he knows everything.” Primrose rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t think it matters as long as you can fight, but I may as well humor him, or I won’t ever hear the end of it.”

\--- --- ---

The inns were already overflowing-- locals were advertising spaces to sleep on their floors, allowing people to camp in their front yards, and others with no where to stay were simply holing up in the taverns to drink through the night. Luckily for the travelers, Cecily offered a room in her small, third floor apartment. The room had a large window that opened up over a bit of an overhang in the roof below, offering a view of Victor’s Hollow from this narrow balcony. H’aanit dropped her stuff, mumbled some excuses about checking in on Linde, and set off with a lantern. She had been grumpy and quiet ever since Primrose left for the barracks. After Cecily bid them goodnight, Therion and Cyrus were left alone, but expecting H’aanit’s return at any time.

Cyrus watched Therion struggle with the window latch, then push them open to climb out onto the roof and the crisp night air.

“Not wary of the height?” he asked, lingering by the window.

“I’ve survived higher falls.” Therion looked over his shoulder. “Come on, that room is too stuffy.”

Bracing himself against the sill, Cyrus stepped carefully out on to the roof. Therion watched with amusement. “You’d be a terrible burglar,” he said.

“Then it’s a good thing I have my illustrious singing career to fall back upon.” Cyrus flashed him a smile as he teetered over to him. They sat, looking out over the city below and the port in the distance. Therion leaned into his side.

“Does it still hurt?” the thief asked.

Cyrus followed his eyes to his arm. He loosened his cuff, pulling up his sleeve. Ophilia’s healing had made it so he didn’t need the restrictive bandage anymore, but a long, dark scar ran the length of his forearm. Two more crossed his wrist, connecting in a V. 

“No. It doesn’t hurt…” He trailed off, not putting voice to the thoughts that came next. The veins were still dark. Therion had been pretending that he hadn’t noticed Cyrus sneaking off in the morning, sliding his fingertip against the sharpened blade of a dagger, frowning at the blackened color of the blood that seeped out slowly. Therion knew he had been working through whatever he had seen under the cleric’s spell, filing a separate notebook with furiously scribbled thoughts as his eyes grew wet. He had offered to talk to him once, but Cyrus was quickly dismissive, muttering something about not burdening him. So he would write, and as Therion pretended to sleep, Cyrus would tear out the pages and whisper a spell to burn them. When his writings were ashes, the scholar would come lay with him, pulling him close, his breathing occasionally stuttering with emotion as Therion pressed as much of his body against him as he could.

“It was worth it,” Cyrus said. He traced his finger over his wrist. “I should have done it sooner. But then I chose to do it again.” Therion felt the change in his tone, the way his muscles tensed just slightly. “I could have stopped. I chose not to. The power… it’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating.”

There was a pause. Therion didn’t have a response. He sat, staring at Cyrus’ arm.

“I can see why Yvon sought it out. Why Lucia still desires it. And why I cannot let them have it.”

\--- --- ---

As the lights dimmed to only those of the city watch’s patrols, Cyrus and Therion had returned to the bedrolls they had spread on the floor. Sleep took them quickly. When H’aanit returned, even though she took precautions to be quiet, Therion woke. He realized it was H’aanit, and loosened the grip on the dagger he had stashed within reach. He listened to H’aanit settle herself on the far side of the room. Her soft snores began soon, and he snuggled himself in close to Cyrus. One hand crept up beneath the hem of Cyrus’ shirt, brushing against the warm skin of his chest. He felt Cyrus stir, his nose nuzzling into Therion’s hair. 

The scholar’s hands began moving along Therion’s waist, tugging at the fabric of his pants. He was able to slide a few fingers down his lower back, but the tightness of the cloth stopped his advance, so Cyrus went to undo the button on the front. But once it popped free, his hand didn’t stop there. His touch descended, ignoring as always the metal ring that still burdened the thief.

Therion tensed. “H’aanit is _right there._ ” His lips were right on Cyrus’ ear, his voice barely even a whisper. The huntress’ heavy breathing was still steady, however.

“Do you really want me to stop?” Cyrus whispered, his fingers teasing.

Therion bit down on his lower lip as he felt his body start to react. He shook his head against Cyrus’ chest.

Cyrus’ lips moved along his forehead, softly and silently. “A little more exciting, no?” he whispered.

Therion leaned upwards, his lips softly pressing against the scholar’s neck, feeling himself harden in response to the touch. Cyrus seemed to know precisely how to play with the sensation-- the right speed, the right pressure, the right places. It didn’t take long before Therion was struggling to keep the little gasps and groans of pleasure quiet in his throat. He was a bit afraid his heartbeat was loud enough to be heard.

Cyrus’ other hand touched his face, feeling the heat on his cheeks and the heaviness of his breath. As the scholar’s fingers brushed along his lower lip, Therion opened his mouth to suck them in. He moved his tongue and lips around Cyrus’ fingers slowly, careful to be silent, losing himself to sensation. He slid his pants down slowly, hoping Cyrus would know what he wanted.

The scholar’s mouth was warm against his neck, tasting the skin he could reach around the leather collar. His hand left Therion’s mouth, returning to the curve of his lower back, but this time, not meeting the resistance of clothing. Therion held his breath, pressing his forehead against the scholar’s chest, as Cyrus’ wet fingers slid down to meet his entrance, while the other still caressed in the front. Therion bit the cloth of Cyrus’ shirt to suppress the sigh as he felt him press inside. The scholar moved his hands in synchronized motions as Therion slowly melted against him, battling to keep his voice quiet. He could have sworn he could feel Cyrus’ mischievous smile in the contact of his lips against his forehead. _The things this guy can do to me…_

He felt himself nearing the edge, lost in a sea of sensation and hot breath and the smell of Cyrus’ skin. He leaned up to kiss his neck, and whisper his name as loudly as he might dare.

Suddenly, the movement stopped. Cyrus’ touch pulled away, Therion left hanging with the ache and need pulsing through him. The thief sought his eyes, wondering if something was wrong, only to see the glint of slyness in Cyrus’ eyes at the purposeful denial.

“Bastard,” Therion breathed, and pressed himself back against Cyrus’ touch. It didn’t take long for the pleasure to explode within him. He buried his face back against Cyrus’ chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as he choked down the gasps of pleasure. He felt Cyrus with a handkerchief to clean any trace of a mess because of course, he had been planning all of it. Therion breathed heavy and content, the scholar’s arms around him.

H’aanit snored on from the far side of the room.


End file.
